Stag
by whattheDalek
Summary: If there's something Harry knows, it's that there's no such thing as a normal year at Hogwarts. Lupin should have known better than to ask that of him. AU HBP. No slash. Returning dead fic with plot. Very slow start.
1. Prana Vayu

**Fair warning: this is not a happy story. Don't know why I'm writing it, other than the idea seems fun to me :).**

 **Pairings:** Not really interested in pairings, but there may be some minor ones that exist solely for the sake of plot. Nothing explicit, no details, no sexy times. Sorry not sorry. However, I am willing to consider suggestions given by reviewers with sound arguments (and by argument I mean a reasonable statement in objective, constructive language meant to persuade. Please), and if the natural progression of the story allows. We are only human, after all. (And even if it happens, it will not become the focus).

 **Warnings:** Child abuse. Violence (especially in later chapters). Swearing and vulgar/offensive language, depending on the character. Possible character death (I haven't decided yet). No beta, no brit-picking, although I hope you enjoy it despite my Americanisms. As for spoilers, why are you reading HP fanfiction if you haven't finished the series? Go read the books, and then come back.

My writing style has once been described as 'dense.' Do with that what you will. Also, the movement of the story will be slower at the beginning, and as the story gains momentum its speed will increase. Long story short: massive build up while I figure out what the hell I'm doing hahaha. I've discovered it's very difficult to write something when you have only the middle and end planned.

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. Not a fix it, no intentional bashing; I'm just having fun :)**

 **I'm a sensitive soul, so please don't flame me. There was once a time in my life where cyberbullying (or any kind of bullying, really) directed at me made me laugh, but not any longer; I'm not that person anymore. I don't expect everyone to like this, and if you don't, then no one is making you continue reading. It's so easy just to walk away without making the author feel crappy about their existence :)**

 **On that note, enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 1

He woke as though from a nightmare, eyes open and a sharp gasp into awareness. Damp earth crumbled into his lungs, filling his startled breath with pain and the same sour ground that compacted his arms and legs into stillness, soft and wet against unclothed skin, and its weight suffocated him as the silence filtered through every opening of his body, every pore. He struggled against it, but straps of Earth's jacket kept him straight. Blackness fell into his sight, piece by piece. Strain licked at his stagnant muscles, and the more he struggled, the more he burned. Thoughts hardly had a place in this hell, but it soon became very clear, especially once exhaustion began to fog his panic, that he was dying.

Will escaped him in a breath of panic and dirt, and the crushing weight both within and upon his body became dusty clouds, light as sand brushing along his feet at a beach. Black clumps dribbled from his open mouth as he coughed earth and pain from his lungs, and he climbed up, wading through loose grains, clumped together through the adhesive that was light rainfall, uncertain to this aspired direction at all but knowing he must do something.

The tips of his fingers brushed strands like damp plastic, then a cool nothing. Excitement and hope kicked at his stuttering heart. Ground parted like water before his fingers, and light trickled in with the subtlety of a crashing surf, blinding his black prison with a sky of white. He coughed more pain and dirt to make room for air sweeter than lilies. Grass cleansed his face in a tide of prickles, its scent dulled by the sharp soil still at home in his nostrils and mouth, and he spat the mixture—now a gluey mess of saliva, mucus, and sludge—before his hands, wishing he'd the energy to aim this expulsion to the pit that was his near grave.

And he lied there, sprawled and twitching in the deserted meadow, until he could see.

* * *

Stag

* * *

July was the longest month, according to Harry Potter. It stretched before him in an expanse of dry lawns, boredom, and the usual neglect or apathy from neighbors who believed the worst of him, though this year the Dursleys had been mostly content to leave him alone. That, coupled with the fictional assumption that his 'criminal' godfather was looking out for his well-being, Uncle Vernon had allowed Harry custody of his trunk and wand, the former of which lied open in a fugue state of sprawled and strangled clothing and sweet wrappers, the latter resting in the pencil divot engraved at the top of his second-hand desk, above a half-finished essay entitled "The Properties and Various Uses of the Draught of Living Death," a potion sixth years were instructed to have researched and memorized by the first day of classes. Admittedly, it wasn't a very creative title, but Harry congratulated himself on attempting this horrid monstrosity.

Hatred of Snape thrumming through his fingers, Harry scratched out another inadequate sentence, placed an exponentially bedraggled quill upon the open pages of _One Hundred Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , and stuck gyrating thumbs to his temples to stave an impending headache. With nothing more than a recipe, he was supposed to deduce the potions affects solely by the interaction of its ingredients, _without_ consulting his potions' text. Unless Harry had divine intervention, it was an impossible task. Not for the first time, Harry wished he could foretell the answers as Professor Trewlawney did his death every other class. Or, perhaps, create a one-way portal to Hermione's brain. He had one with Voldemort, so why not his best friend?

 _Sleep,_ Harry thought, suddenly disturbed. _I need sleep._ Harry snapped the text closed, and it breathed a lingering scent of crisp parchment into his face, blowing dark fringe briefly from his eyebrows. The clock he had once repaired ticked slowly on its way to midnight. He sat in a faded circle of dying light, courtesy of the desk lamp, and blinked the seductive claws of Morpheus from his eyes. His bed, made yesterday morning, looked terribly inviting, but he had yet to write his letter to the Order, which would be sent off in the morning before his chores. To "earn his keep," as was one of Uncle Vernon's favorite catchphrases. Others being to "work away" his "freakishness," "because I said so, Boy," and "what did we tell you about asking questions?"

Bitterness pressed his lips thin as he unrolled a fresh half-foot of parchment, spreading it over his still drying Potions essay. At this time of night, he hardly cared if ink stained his letter. Rubbing his eyes from behind his glasses with one hand, Harry cast the other out in search of his quill, and, quite dumbfounded how he could have lost something so quickly, sharpened and inked another before scratching out a nearly scripted reply to the useless correspondence he received from his friends.

As last year, Ron and Hermione's letters have been short, uninformative, and worst of all, sometimes together, which did nothing to curb Harry's temper. It was difficult to reconcile how they had the freedom to do whatever they wanted during the summer, even visit one another's families, while Harry himself suffered at the hands of his magic-hating relatives. Still, he'd none to blame but himself. Less frequently, he'd a response from the Order—in either Tonks' or Lupin's hand—with words meant to placate, but in the scheme of it all, meaning nothing—something Harry had learned to accept. Lately he'd been too exhausted for anger or resentment, and often let it filter into resignation, laying on the hard board of his mattress, doing his best to ignore the spring that enjoyed puncturing his lung through his back or side, languidly watching the stray lines of moonlight weave across the peeling wallpaper of Dudley's second bedroom.

He had just finished the curl of the 'y' in his name when there came a sharp knock on the front door. Bewilderment replaced Harry's usual vigilance, and was thus unprepared for Uncle Vernon's shout of, " _Who the bloody hell is calling this time of night?"_

Footfalls heavier than Hagrid's followed this exclamation, and Harry quietly eased open his door just as his uncle ambled down the steps, a large shape in relative darkness, lit only by the half-moon peering in through Aunt Petunia's sheer curtained windows. Vision adjusting to a night without his desk lamp, Harry slipped out the doorway in his stocking feet, hesitating only at the sight of Dudley doing the same. Tall, gumpy, and thick in more ways than one, Dudley Dursley was the wet dream of many a fast food franchise, the type of boy to act with as little physical and mental effort as possible. Harry tensed, expecting his cousin to tattle about his nightly venture past curfew—a law from which precious Dinky Diddydums was unsurprisingly exempt—and was astonished Dudley did nothing of the sort. Merely edged closer to the banister, beady eyes usually shiny with greed or malicious excitement opaque with a rare curiosity.

This was a miraculous study in itself, but Harry wasn't one for looking a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he forced the tension from his shoulders and followed his uncle down the stairs, careful to keep within silence and shadows. The volume of Uncle Vernon's grumbling increased as Harry neared the first floor. Harry paused on the third step to the bottom, crouched low before the banister and gripping his knobby knees, peering past curved rungs to the front door—here, Harry would be safe from a cursory glance. Dudley's heavy presence settled a few steps behind him.

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Uncle Vernon yapped, tying the drawstring of his navy bathrobe tighter around the fleshy barrel of his stomach.

"I'm not a salesman," a very familiar voice stated mildly, calm in the storm of Uncle Vernon's temper. "And I do apologize for calling this late at night, but I'm afraid it couldn't wait."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be. "Professor Lupin?" Harry called out, standing from the cover of night in his shock; it wasn't everyday his favorite professor—now retired—visited his aunt and uncle's house.

"Harry." Lupin sounded very relieved.

Uncle Vernon, however, was not. At the sound of his voice Harry's uncle had turned, face very red behind the bush of his facial hair. Fists like cured hams curled tightly at his round sides.

"Boy, get to bed!" Uncle Vernon shouted, inciting a jump from even Dudley, whom Harry nearly stumbled over in his hurry to scramble back up the stairs. His uncle then turned, spitting, "Your kind isn't welcome here. I thought I made it very clear the _last time_ your lot dirtied our doorstep. I'm tired of this tosh, you hear? The bloody phone call from Helen Keller. Owls tearing up our window curtains. The floo all over the living room floor. Well I won't stand for it any longer—I won't have it! Now, leave! Get off my _bloody_ doorstep—!"

Lupin's foot stopped the door from slamming in his face, and with a swift drawing of his arm opened the door as though a mammoth of a man were not behind it. "My most sincere apologies, Mr. Dursley, but I must insist," he said. There was a glimpse of a black street and a sky smudged with ink and stars, darkened by the yellowing porch of number four, before the door closed with a snap behind him.

The hallway light pulled strangely at the thin scars dividing's Lupin's face, and Uncle Vernon backed up a few steps before spluttering, "Now, see here—"

Lupin held out a thin hand. "Remus Lupin. I work for the Order."

Uncle Vernon's face achieved a puce color Harry hadn't seen since his cupboard days. "What gives you the right—?"

Lupin glanced up at Harry, who was still halfway to the second floor landing, and back down. He took his hand back without the slightest change in expression. "Vernon, was it? I really do apologize for my unexpected presence in your home, but I only require a few moments of your nephew's time. It's an urgent matter, you understand." A closed lipped smile—a polite and pleasant gesture Harry felt his uncle didn't deserve.

As would a ruffled bird its wings, Uncle Vernon rolled his bulbous shoulders and held himself in a way that suggested he thought he could will a few inches' growth. "The boy's been sending his letters every three days, just like you asked. We've done nothing to him—"

Lupin held up a hand, and Uncle Vernon fell silent as though struck dumb. "This isn't about that. Just a quick word with Harry, and I'm off."

Uncle Vernon stared up at Lupin for a few moments, and Harry could imagine rusted gears in his uncle's head churning slowly to life, blowing steam in odd places as he decided whether he should allow Harry contact with wizards at all. After a moment, Uncle Vernon grunted and waddled to the kitchen. The light flicked on, drowning pristine table and counters with glaring brightness, and the door swung closed. Mere seconds later, the suction of the refrigerator door released. Harry nearly smiled. Uncle Vernon ate quite generously when stressed.

"Come, Harry, if you would," Lupin said, thankfully startling Harry from visions of his uncle stuffing himself stupid. "Let's talk in the sitting room."

Dazed, wondering if this was a dream conjured from the desk he _must_ have fallen asleep upon, Harry followed after a shared glance with his cousin, nearly tripping down the stairs in ill concentration. Lupin wore exhaustion like his patched clothes, and it threatened to settle on Harry's shoulders as he passed the man, who guided Harry with a hand between his shoulder blades until he seemed to think better of it.

The sitting room, as always, seemed to have come directly from a catalog specializing in interior design. Beige leather couches angled precisely toward the brick fireplace, which had been boarded up since the Weasleys attempted to use their floo two years prior. Bland still life paintings of fruit touched upon walls not cluttered with Dursley family photos, most of them featuring a pink beach ball of a boy. Young Harry had never been pictured. Sheer curtains lay loose from their ties, blocking Harry's sight to the world outside the Dursley residence.

In all, it was a rather bland place, uncomfortable in its cleanliness, lacking the warm touch homes usually offered in its almost compulsive order. Nevertheless, Harry offered his former professor a seat nearest the window, and ignored his own discomfort as Harry himself sunk into Uncle Vernon's favorite couch.

Fearing Lupin would ask for tea, Harry burst with the questions he'd held onto all summer: "Is everyone alright? I've gotten the Ministry pamphlets about Inferi, but they were as helpful as expected, which is not at all. Did Voldemort—"

"Harry." Lupin's voice was soft, but there was none of his usual congeniality. Shadows like bruises under his eyes battled his remaining youth. "I need you to be entirely truthful. Did you leave Little Whinging at all this week, for any reason?"

Harry stared. A hush washed over them, broken only by the ticking of the clock above the mantle. "Why would I leave Little Whinging?"

"Just answer the question, Harry."

"I haven't even left the house," Harry said, and it was true. Part of the week he'd been locked in his room for burning breakfast—such was the price for daydreams—and the rest of the week he'd all but disinfected the house for 'prestigious' company. Uncle Vernon's guest list had been surprisingly long this summer.

Skepticism walked reluctantly across Lupin's face. "You weren't at Godric's Hollow this past Tuesday."

Harry blinked. "What's Godric's Hollow?"

Lupin looked a bit depressed at that. "It's where your parents are buried, Harry."

"Oh." Harry savored this new information, allowing it to sweeten his tongue before tucking it away with other hard-won treasures about his parents. He did the same when he learned his father had been a Chaser. When he learned his mother's maiden name. And now, he knew where they were buried.

Immediately squashing the whim to ask Lupin to take him, Harry asked, "You thought I'd gone to visit my parents?"

"I don't know what I thought." Lupin ran a scarred hand through his hair, which had more gray than when Harry had seen him last. Inward thought pulled down on his lips. "Dumbledore received a letter today from Bathilda Bagshot, the historian who wrote—"

" _A History of Magic_ , yeah," Harry finished. Despite having read the book himself, it was impossible to forget after Hermione's constant desire to quote the woman's work, in both her essays and everyday conversation.

Lupin gave him an odd look. "Yes," he said, somewhat slowly, but seemed to recover for his next words: "What you may not have known, Harry, is that Bathilda Bagshot is actually an old friend of the Potter family—I believe she babysat you in your infancy—so we didn't doubt the truth of her words when she said she saw you in Godric's Hollow. The Potter men have quite the distinctive look. But, as you've been here . . ."

Icy fingers grasped Harry's stomach. "Someone's impersonating me."

"My thoughts exactly."

Harry felt rather ill. "Why . . . ?"

"Why would someone impersonate The Boy Who Lived?" Lupin asked shrewdly, when Harry was unable to voice the remainder of his question. "Perhaps for fifteen minutes in the spotlight? You are a rather popular figure in the wizarding world, Harry."

"Don't remind me," Harry grumbled.

Lupin smiled, but it soon gave way to something troubled. "Honestly, Harry, I wouldn't know. It would be the pinnacle of idiocy for another to take up your appearance at this time; you're a walking target to multiple parties, which isn't quite the secret after last year. It's the reason you must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection for the time being. And then there's the problem of your age; you're vulnerable in ways an adult isn't, and there is not much a fifteen-year-old boy has the right to access despite his fame, wizarding or not."

"I'm almost sixteen," Harry grumbled stubbornly before he could stop himself.

Another smile, closed-mouthed and humoring, folded pre-mature lines into half-circles of joy. Harry was under the impression that Lupin was laughing at him.

"What about Voldemort?" Harry said impatiently, the question near burning a hole in his tongue from the wait. "There hasn't really been anything suspicious in _The Prophet_ or the Muggle news."

Lupin's mirth was expelled in a breath of air, and he didn't seem surprised Harry had asked at all. Hands roped with jagged scars clasped before wrinkled slacks, elbows to knees as Lupin leaned forward. There was something in the wary shift of his light brown eyes that told Harry his question, or perhaps the response, was being considered very carefully.

"Death Eater activity has been very . . . quiet . . . since the Department of Mysteries," Lupin said at last, words but a hushed breath fogging the pane of silence between them, lingering a short while before fading back to transparency as though fearing speaking any louder would bring their enemies upon them both. "Now that we've the power of public opinion backing our claims, Voldemort's been allowed the freedom of louder rebellions. And yet . . . he hasn't taken advantage of this victory."

Harry sat forward. "What do you mean?"

Lupin sighed. "Severus believes the battle with Dumbledore has weakened Voldemort more than previously thought, and it appears there's merit to his allegations: the little activity we've been able to track, it's been mainly through delegation. None of the inner circle have been spotted. We theorize he's planning once more, taking this time to recover, regroup . . . recruit."

Sour disgust coated Harry's tongue. Although he wanted to comment on Voldemort's recruitment, he feared he didn't have much time with Lupin. Instead, he asked, "Plans? Like what?"

A huff escaped Lupin before it was suppressed into a cough. "You've quite the one track mind, Harry," he said, releasing something of a smile. "Determination is an admirable quality, but in a situation that requires gathering intelligence, perhaps a little subtlety would go a long way."

Harry ducked his head, frustrated with himself and trying to ignore the embarrassment warming his cheeks.

"Nevertheless," Remus continued, and Harry's head jerked upwards, hopeful, "I shouldn't be surprised you hunger for this information." Sobriety tamed Remus' kind smile into a non-expression. "The loss of the prophecy was a great blow to Voldemort's cause. And yet, this is only a small victory for us; Voldemort's always had multiple contingency plans and side-activities, and it's impossible to predict which may hold his attention, as was in the First War. However, it is safe for us to assume, for Voldemort's affinity for spectacle and grandeur, he has a strange fascination for powerful magical objects."

Something tweaked at Harry's memory, but before he could grasp it and turn it into thought, it slipped away like water through his fingers. "What kind of magical objects?" Harry asked.

"Voldemort's always been interested in things that will give him an advantage over other wizards," Lupin said vaguely. A year ago, such an answer would have prompted irritation or more questions from Harry, but there was a sense of finality lingering under the words of his former professor that cowed his previous reaction into submission. Instead, Harry merely nodded, saying no more. There was a shuffling above them, and Harry realized with surprise that Aunt Petunia must be having difficult falling asleep. Harry could no longer hear his uncle in the kitchen.

Lupin's eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to peer at Harry through a thick fog. "Harry, are you feeling all right?"

Harry swallowed, and had a sudden fear that Lupin wanted to talk about what happened in the Department of Mysteries. "I'm fine," he croaked, mouth suddenly dry. He did not want to talk about Sirius.

Lupin opened his mouth, but his true intent was lost in the orbit of Uncle Vernon's wrath as the door connecting the living room to the kitchen opened with a bang, startling both Harry and Lupin to their feet. The latter's wand seemed to jump into his palm.

"That's it!" Uncle Vernon shouted, mustache writhing as if to escape the fury beneath it. As he squeezed into the living room, his momentum momentarily slowed by the scrape of his girth passed the door frame, Lupin hastily put his wand away. He seemed to have difficulty relaxing his stance. "I'm done waiting for this bloody circus to end! You've had plenty of time—a generous amount on my part—and you've had a look at the boy. I won't have for more of this freakish nonsense! Do you people have any sense of proper timing?"

Rather than annoyed or angered, Harry found he was embarrassed by his uncle's outburst. But Lupin appeared unaffected, choosing to duck in subservience and brushing scarred hands down the front of his wrinkled jacket.

"You're right," he conceded. "I do apologize for my late call. I just needed to be certain Harry was safe."

"You've had your look; take a picture to show your band of freaks if you need to," Uncle Vernon raged, stalking closer to Lupin with impetus equivalent to a boulder rolling down a hill.

Lupin's eyes narrowed, and deep creases on his forehead bunched as he frowned. He didn't back away, much to Uncle Vernon's displeasure. "You needn't be rude," Lupin said, quite mild. "I've apologized profusely for my timing, and explained there's not much I can do about it. No harm done, I've said my share, but your open hostility is quite uncalled for. As an investigator, this attitude of yours suggests to me an underlying problem you don't want addressed. Is there something, Vernon Dursley, that you'd like me to know?"

There was a sting of ice in the atmosphere that hadn't been there before, and Uncle Vernon recoiled slightly, despite his anger.

Lupin then glanced at Harry, this time with a searching uncertainty Harry didn't appreciate. "Don't hesitate to owl me," Lupin said at last, much warmer, although something of his earlier frost remained. "The Order has me on quite a few rotations, so I may not respond right away, but things are always easier to bear, I've found, with a friend."

With a quirk of his lips, Lupin left. There was a moment in which he stood in the doorway, hesitating as he breathed in the night air, before shaking his head a stepping past the threshold. The front door closed very softly against the quiet of the night.

And in the shadows of number eight, a stag pawed the ground with an anxious hoof.

* * *

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 **Prana Vayu: (1)** Forward moving air. **(2)** The energy that receives anything coming into the body and ensures the heart continues to beat, governs respiration and reception, and allows one to see the world's potential.

If **Prana Vayu** is deranged, one suffers from cravings, bad habits, and a restless, distracted mind.

* * *

 **Updated October 2016**


	2. The Gift

Chapter 2

Steam rolled up Remus' cheeks, embracing his nose with a damp, floral warmth as he held a cup of tea, pointer finger curled around its delicate stem while the other hand palmed the saucer. He blinked into its depths, sugar flakes sinking as the swirl of a liquid recently stirred slowed, and tried to remember when he'd been given such a thing.

"You looked like you needed it, my boy." Dumbledore smiled kindly at him, and traced his wand along an inverse parabola. A porcelain teapot—a silver plated antique engraved with chrysanthemum petals—rose delicately to approximately the height of the headmaster's shoulder, tipping with mathematical precision. Golden tea wept over a single sugar cube, relaxing its compacted shape into a dissolving mound within an otherwise empty cup identical to Remus' own. Gently and without direction, the teapot settled upon a doily with the most muted of thuds. Hands with fingers like wizened oak branches coiled around the cup and drew it just underneath a long, crooked nose.

After having spoken with Harry nearly thirty minutes ago, Remus had come directly to Hogwarts in an attempt to piece together this unsettling matter. He sipped at his tea. A faint sweetness burned his tongue, lacking the strength of a darker brew. He tried to remember the last time he slept, and couldn't. Perhaps there was merit in Dumbledore's statement.

Remus had always appreciated the chaotic serenity that was the headmaster's office. Settled within a tower, the room overlooked much of Hogwarts' grounds through narrow windows. Slumbering portraits of headmasters past occupied the stretch of wall directly behind Dumbledore and his desk of polished mahogany, breathing gently into the hush of the very early morning. Ancient texts dusted shelves erected upon any remaining wall space, occasionally shoved impossibly close to make room for many of Dumbledore's whizzing trinkets. Unlike much of the castle, the headmaster's office generated an inner warmth that both welcomed and comforted any visitor. Even as a boy, with Sirius on one side of him and James on the other, about to be punished and congratulated for their latest stunt (something that had never failed to confuse), Remus had always felt this.

"Thank you, Albus," Remus said. Despite his distaste for Darjeeling, he was grateful for the warmth that permeated outwards from his stomach to his limbs, beating the chill of malnutrition into a temporary submission.

"Harry, I assume, has not left Privet Drive as we feared," Dumbledore said after a long while.

"I don't think he's even considered it," Remus said, hardly surprised Dumbledore had figured as such.

"Did you inform Harry of our potential problem?"

Remus paused, cup halfway to his parted lips. Dumbledore was unreadable, very still, but his blue eyes pierced Remus' own.

"I think Harry has the right to our knowledge and trust," Remus said diplomatically, slowly lowering his tea. "Or, at least some of it," he amended after a quick consideration of the facts. One of the portraits snorted in his sleep.

"Yes . . . I think so as well." Dumbledore's words were slow-coming and almost absent, as though he meditated on each one before allowing their escape. He looked to Fawkes, who was tucked within the fluff of young feathers, resting in ash underneath his perch. "Although I wish things were different. That I had seen our paths more clearly. But such is the lament of old men, Remus. And I'm no clairvoyant."

Crystal eyes shifted away from behind half-moon spectacles, lingering on a horribly crippled instrument of silver on his desk. Tarnished with age, its stirrings rattled within imperfect sockets, and its overall lopsided shape gave a likeness to a bent old man hobbling across the street. Its struggle was paralyzing to watch. Torn between pity and horror, Remus wondered why a magical master as Dumbledore hadn't bothered to repair it. Perhaps he'd been unable—a humbling thought.

"Albus?" Remus prompted, leaning forward so his elbows pinned his tired knees into stability.

Dumbledore seemed to shake himself, and returned his gaze forwards. "You were right to tell him, Remus," the headmaster said, and relief washed through Remus with more warmth than the tea. "It will encourage vigilance. He will know what to look for—or, at least, know that he should be looking for something."

Remus nodded, and sipped at his tea.

"To be honest, Remus, I hoped Harry _had_ been the one at Godric's Hollow," Dumbledore continued, hooking his thumbs underneath his chin so the tips of his fingers touched just under his crooked nose. "Then this would be a simple matter of adolescent agitation. Knowing what we do now, I foresee several possible explanations, such as a secretly sanctioned experiment in human transfiguration. A bored witch or wizard with far too much luxury time." Dumbledore's tone then lightened, touching at innocent curiosity: "Perhaps this imposter is merely an avid fan, though whether harmless of not, only time will tell."

Disgust clawed faintly at Remus' self-control. "This isn't something to joke about, Albus."

The headmaster sobered, and his hands fell from his bearded lips to rest upon his desk. "You're right," he agreed. "And we have too little evidence to make any firm conclusions. It would be very troublesome if the imposter had somehow gotten a hold of Harry's DNA. His hair, his blood, his anything, would be a very valuable commodity on the black market." His voice then lowered into soft, vague concern, "Perhaps Mundungus should be alerted, but he hasn't reported anything strange as of yet. . ."

Remus straightened in his seat, disturbed. "You want me to go after him. The imposter."

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said. "But exude the utmost caution. I'd like to settle this matter as quickly as possible, and hopefully without alerting the rest of the Order."

Remus carefully set down his cup and saucer, which clinked softly upon Dumbledore's polished desk. "You don't trust them?"

"On the contrary," Dumbledore said, "I trust you all entirely too much. But the mistakes of last time left undesirable scars, and I've learned to tred more carefully."

Remus nodded in acquiescence. The First War had been an inescapable maze of horror, a trial in which friend and foe alike led the trusting to dead ends obscured by shadows. And while the wary survived by breaking the links of former companionships, by fighting in the encompassing darkness by tooth and nail, in the penultimate moment they would end up stranded and alone, gripping tightly to the lifeline that was a wand as the walls slowly closed in.

The wrinkles crinkling the corners of Dumbledore's eyes deepened in gravity. "What I find most troubling," Dumbledore continued, "is Severus' silence on the matter."

Shock whittled at Remus' spine, and he fought not to stand. "You told him?"

"No." The aged voice had chilled in its finality, and Remus curbed his enthusiasm, properly scolded. "Although he is privy to much of the Order's secrets, I decided that, in the case that this imposter is of Lord Voldemort's doing, it would be in our best interests for Severus to come to us. But Severus has yet to speak."

Something of Remus' pent-up anxiety must have broken past its guarded cell, for Dumbledore folded one hand over the other, and said with great magnitude, "Severus Snape has my complete trust. I find it surprising I must reiterate this to you, Remus."

Remus shook his head. "I'm only concerned about what this means, Albus. Nothing more."

"Severus' silence tells me many things, and also nothing at all." Dumbledore paused, chin upon closed fists, blue eyes piercing the ceiling with its javelin stare. "It's possible Lord Voldemort remains unaware of this matter as we—maybe more so—but in my many years, I've found coincidences to be a luxury within which the world rarely indulges."

Despite Remus' truthful words to Dumbledore just moments before, negative thoughts poisoned Remus' mind against Severus Snape, slithering around his precarious trust and constricting it with whispered lies—many voiced by memories of Sirius Black. Shaking his head, such thoughts turned to dust and blew away.

"If Severus doesn't know . . ." Remus began, operating within his faith for Dumbledore's sound judgment.

"Then he's either outside of Lord Voldemort's confidence, or I've made a terrible, terrible mistake."

* * *

Two Weeks Later

* * *

It was well into the third week of July. Heat wavered in illusory surfs above the asphalt, fading across lawns growing brown and brittle from the surplus of summer, leading up to identical houses that sagged under the pressure of the rare hot sun. It glared at Harry from white spots upon metal equipment, which sprouted from faded woodchips into curved beams, twisting to accommodate strange ladders, rattling bridges, and the occasional slide on the frightfully ugly and unoccupied play structure. Harry sat on a swing, arm entwined with its chain as he swiveled noncommittedly under a cloudless sky, toe burrowed in woodchips and sand anchoring him to the empty playground. He was very bored. Hedwig couldn't both keep his company as well as his correspondence, so he was, for the most part, alone this summer. He needn't do his homework assignments until he'd received his O.W.L. scores, which would indicate his eligibility for next term's schedule, but boredom had forced his hand; seven rolls of parchment now stacked like billiards in his trunk, though his hopeful career choice requested only five. In between letters from his friends and Lupin—the former more frequently than the latter, and none holding anything of importance—Harry would pace, balling up old letters, tossing them aside, only to straighten them again to be re-read and crumpled for the reassurance that his life at Hogwarts had been more than just a very lucid dream. It didn't help he'd been arbitrarily locked up again, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

After a quick breakfast of dry Cheerios and half an orange, Aunt Petunia had ushered him out with an extensive chore list: he was to weed the planters of undesirables and tidy the perennials into neat little lots, painting a ring of color around the otherwise bland house; wash the windows of grime and night, chasing whatever lingered away with the circular motions of his damp cloth; clip the grass to a respectable length of one and one-quarter inches, and rake the leftovers into a bag to be later disposed. Unsurprisingly similar to his tasks for the last couple of days. Usually this particular set of chores was accompanied by sweeping out the garage, but Aunt Petunia had snapped that he was to clean out the attic instead when he'd asked, supplemented by the almost instinctive instruction to not ask questions.

It was the hallmark of Harry's apathy that he was doing none of these things.

Of course, there would be repercussions for his inaction later, but Harry ached for the outdoors, for the summer breeze on his face. What he really wanted to do was _fly_ , to escape the chains of his current worries and this dismal Muggle slump, dashing them to the freedom of the vast, uncluttered blue. He didn't want to waste this day with busy work. Yet, given his current surroundings, there wasn't much else to do, either, so Harry had to settle with swings and his own thoughts for company.

The sun beat brutally at his back, drawing sweat from his scalp with painful rays like fingernails. Stagnation had become a very unwelcome presence in Harry's life—at its best, flicking at Harry's brow with listless persistence, and he would battle its torturous progression with homework, chores, and thoughts that turned pointedly away from the clawing ache in his belly; at its worst, it drove Harry to pace in agitation with the strange desire for destruction, for excitement and adventure, for something reckless enough it would force him to flee Surrey before he completely lost his mind. The very place was driving him mad. Harry hated not knowing. Being stuck in the dark. He hated being away from the magical world, forced to stay put at Privet Drive like a naughty, foolish child caught with his finger up his nose.

 _But_ , whispered a nasty voice in the corner of his mind, _maybe it's what you deserve. Putting your_ dear _friends at risk for_ nothing _, for a man they didn't know and who was going to die anyway, for your precious_ ego. _Your 'saving people thing.' But who are you saving, really?_

Harry muttered at the voice to shut up, but it never did any good.

"Hello, Harry," called a withered voice, craggy with gravel and age.

Harry glanced up and wiped his filthy palms on his jeans. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Figg," he said to his batty neighbor without looking at his watch, hoping it truly was the afternoon. Today she wore a floral dress that had seen its prime at least three decades ago, swinging a carpet bag from her arm as she ambled across the empty playground in clacking sandals. From within the bag, Harry could hear a faint mewing. He stood carefully as she neared, blackness crowding his vision before filtering out in a dotting of color. "Having a good summer?"

Mrs. Figg squinted at him with beady eyes. "Boy, you need to spend more time in the sun. You're as pale as a vampire."

Harry, who had been in the sun for the better part of the day, felt quite the opposite.

"Dumbledore has a letter for you," she said, much more quietly. The wrinkles around her mouth deepened, crevasses like dry ravines gathering as she frowned. "It's waiting for you in my foyer."

"Dumbledore?" Harry croaked. "He was here? Did he say when I could leave? Am I going back to Grimmauld Place?" The questions tumbled clumsily from his lips so quickly he nearly stuttered over them, each punctuated by a flutter in his ribcage. As much as he loathed the idea of returning to his Godfather's hated childhood home, anywhere was better than here.

The set of Mrs. Figg's wild eyebrows suggested confusion. "They didn't tell you?" she started, momentarily incredulous, but the expression cleared quickly, replaced with that of self-reprimanding. "No, of course not. Silly me. Can't put a thing like that in the post. No, come over to my place for tea later, dear. Four o'clock should do it." And with that she waddled in the direction of Wisteria Walk, sandals slipping occasionally over hot woodchips, dragging along with her a strong odor of cabbage and feline pheromone. She ignored, or couldn't hear, his calls for her to return, and irritation washed over him in ripples from his fingers to his toes. _Of all the bloody days_. . . Harry checked his watch, and noted with a clambering anxiety that he would be unable to finish his chores before meeting with his neighbor for tea. He couldn't miss it—Mrs. Figg might think there was something wrong. And there wasn't.

"Babe!" called a voice, adolescent and mocking and loud. "Babe, come back! Babe! Babe!"

It wasn't the most ideal situation—tonight, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were to entertain an important investor for Grunning's Drills, and Harry hadn't the slightest clue how long Mrs. Figg would keep him.

"Hot date tonight, Potter?" Snickers stifled the summer air, seeping into the street tar and pinging off the glaring support beams of the swing set. "I guess I can see it; I bet he likes the sag and grab, don't 'e? Them tits prob'ly slap 'im in the face every time he—"

Hopefully not for too long—when the Dursleys had guests, Harry had two choices: either be out of the house, or shut up in his room ( _making no noise and pretending I don't exist)_. That being said, if Harry returned after the guest's arrival, he had no choice but to spend the night in the shed, something he hadn't done since before Hogwarts.

"Oi, Potter, I'm fucking talking to you!"

Nevertheless, common sense suggested it would be unwise for Harry to leave the property for an extended period of time, and especially not at night. _You must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection._

"Has he gone off his rocker?"

"Nah, he's jusy stupid."

"Mates, he's not worth it. Let's just go—"

"Big D, greatest respect, man, but you're being a bloody pussy. Go get fucked if you're gonna make such a big stink about it."

"You a queef, man?"

"Shut up, Diggs. I'm no queef. And Piers, you can go fuck yourself."

"That's the spirit. Oi, Potter! Wake the fuck up. It's Hunting time."

Harry stumbled backwards into the pole of the swing set, momentum forced elsewhere by a two-handed shove to the chest. Hot metal seared a long line from his shoulders to the crease between bare arm and the woven fibers of his shirt, and his tolerance for pain and previous anxiety charred away into a sudden awareness of his current reality.

With a hiss he jerked away from the pinching brand punishing his inattention. Calloused hands, toughened to resist the ardor of yard work and harsh cleaning chemicals, tensed and coiled into tight fists by his sides. Harry lifted his head. Piers Polkiss, Alex Diggs, and Dudley Dursley stood in an inverse 'V' before him, boredom slicked to their skin and shining under the midday sun, bringing with them the usual sharp cologne of sweat, made bitter by the hint of cigarette smoke seeping into the summer from their brand name clothes. Diggs idled with one hand in the pocket of his grubby jeans, eyes hound-like and drooping as he watched his tar-stained fingers twitch an unlit cigarette, expression otherwise indifferent—a far cry from the lively, hate-filled boy of their youth. Dudley, a surprisingly reluctant spectator taking the rear, shuffled his trainers along the woodchips, gaze averted. The only one who seemed to want to be there at all was Polkiss, still rat-faced and skinny and small, but there was something _mean_ about the tilt of his lips, now.

The back of Harry's neck burned, slapped by long hours in the sun. Sweat rotted his shirt sleeves, tampered by the earthly odor of the soil that dusted his skin and clothes. Presented with his childhood tormentors, Harry was suddenly very conscious he'd been wearing the same clothes for three days straight.

Knowing this, it surprised even Harry his first reaction was exasperation. "Don't you three have anything better to do?" he asked.

"You hear that, boys?" Polkiss split his pointed face with an expression that once ended with Harry on the rooftop of a school. "Potter here doesn't think 'e's worth our time."

Diggs didn't respond, pulling a red Zippo from his pocket and rolling his thumb over the wheel. It clicked three impatient breaths of butane before he was able to drown his cigarette, now pinched between his lips, into the controlled flame. Dudley continued his furious contemplation of the ground, and by the concentration slicking his brow, Harry had to say the ground was winning whatever contest Dudley provided.

Harry didn't have time for the Surrey Talking Circus today. "I'm really not," he said impartially, sparing a quick glance for his worn watch, and muttered "Excuse me," almost under his breath, and made to pass his childhood tormentors. No talking back. No fights. He didn't need the trouble. He didn't need the temptation. Harry considered it progress he'd managed not to become angry this time, but since Sirius died, Harry hadn't been feeling much of anything at all. House and yardwork served as excellent distractions.

A hand resisted Harry's progress, squeezing his shoulder firmly.

"Where's that famous spirit of St. Brutus?" Polkiss sneered to Harry's side, sallow skin tight over the slanted angles of his cheek and nose. "Odd that a crook like yourself doesn't want to fight. What's'a matter? Caned too hard? Prefer to sing wif the nuts an' the squirrels?"

Harry blinked, momentarily forgetting himself. Diggs tilted his head over his shoulder, and expelled bitter smoke with a long, forced exhale. For the first time he appeared cognizant of his surroundings. "St. Brutus'?" he asked, his voice but a lazy rasp.

Dudley peered up from under the flat brim of his hat, eying his friends nervously from behind.

"Oh, yeah. You'd already moved," Polkiss said, then let loose a snicker. "Potter landed himself in the slammer, and 'e'd been in juvie since what, eleven?"

Eyes struck with blood and haze eyed Harry skeptically, and disappeared behind another quick-fading cloud of smoke. Harry didn't blame him; if anything, Harry had the appearance of chronic victimization, but he'd never congratulate his relatives for accuracy. To explain his absence during the year, his aunt and uncle had endorsed the correctional program at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, which gave Harry a vague idea of what they thought about him, and wizards in general. When this had first been proposed to him (and executed without his consent), Harry had been outraged, disbelieving of his caretakers' cruelty. He really shouldn't have been surprised—the Dursleys had quite the history of strange lies to account for Harry's presence in their exclusive unit as a 'normal family'—but such was life at the age of twelve, still unable (and unwilling) to realize that no matter what he had done—even save Dudley's life—he would never be good enough for them.

Now, nearly sixteen, Harry had grown, if not content, then used to the state of things. He wasn't expected to partake in social niceties—none spoke to him, none asked for lawn care help (although he'd gotten exponentially proficient), none even waved to acknowledge his existence. Sure, it depressed him sometimes, but it was because of this lie Harry's neighbors allowed him to do as he very well pleased.

After a long moment, Diggs looked away to take another drag of his cigarette. "Rough go," was all he said. Dudley visibly deflated, and returned his gaze to the woodchips.

"Personally," Polkiss continued, though no one asked him to, "I think Mr. and Mrs. D pulled out the big bucks and stuck him there because they were tired of seeing his ugly mug."

Well, he wasn't far off the mark.

"Look," Harry said impatiently, "are you going to punch me or not? Because, as nostalgic as this has been, I really have to go."

"Where're you headed?" Polkiss asked, sneer scorching his features into malice.

Harry let his face fall into a mockery of disappointment. "I was hoping to catch the next showing of ChuckleVision, but I suppose you three will do."

Smoke strangled a cough from Diggs from behind a sudden grey cloud.

Polkiss frowned. "You insulting us?"

"Brilliant, you are," Harry grinned. "You know, they really could use you at Scotland Yard; I hear they're hiring floor detectives. Just don't be alarmed when they hand you a mop."

As Polkiss struggled, brow furrowed almost into his eyelids and his mouth a severe slash of concentration, Harry saluted to the remnants of Dudley's gang and stepped out of the park, hands in his pockets and pace quickened as he whistled with a joviality he did not feel. So much for not talking back. He'd forgotten how exhilarating it was to get in a few verbal jabs before his teeth were knocked in. Although, Harry thought, glancing over his shoulder at the trio, he almost missed the swelling fluster that became Dudley's face in the final stages of Harry Hunting. And yet, Dudley had been a mere passerby this time, a passive spectator in his favorite game. A game that, thankfully, hadn't progressed to the final stages of cat and mouse.

A strange change in behavior, but not an unwelcome one.

Convinced the three would leave him alone, Harry turned sharply on his heel and headed for number four. Really, he only had enough time for a shower, but he supposed he should get at least _one_ chore done to keep Aunt Petunia from breathing down his neck.

When he arrived a mere five minutes later, he was surprised to see his outside chores had already been completed. Neat rows of trimmed grass sweated under the summer sun, the clippings brushed from each strand and piled near the shed. The front windows beamed at him, oddly clean, and the hedges had been clipped into respectable order. Bewilderment struck Harry dumb, and he stood at the edge of the Dursley property, slightly agape; Aunt Petunia hadn't done yardwork in _years._

Harry blinked, shook his head. His watch foretold a little over twenty minutes before he was expected at Wisteria Walk. He rushed to the front door and yanked it open, only to hesitate before the hallway, head over toes as he battled to regain his balance. The floor preened under its latest scrub, courtesy of Aunt Petunia and her bony elbows, proudly flowering the house with lemon.

As though she'd sniffed his arrival Harry's aunt swooped in like a thestral, the delicate bones of her skinny feet creaking within beige house slippers, pale eyes wild and bulging as she took in Harry's current state of hygiene.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed under her breath, pale eyes shifting over his shoulder to the bright day behind him.

"I have tea with Mrs. Figg," Harry said. In the cleansed air of number four, Harry was suddenly very conscious of how days' sweat crusted his shirt, mixing with dirt and the faint taint of gasoline.

Aunt Petunia peered down at him over the beak of her nose, neck craned upwards. "I don't think so, Boy. Not after what you did to the yard—"

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, heel slipping on the welcome mat as he scuffed it uncertainly. "The yard looks perfect—"

"That's because _I_ fixed that slash job of yours," she snarled, then flapped her arms as though she could create a gust of air strong enough to push Harry through the door without touching him. "And I thought the attic would keep you occupied for hours, but clearly I was wrong. Look at the state of you! So filthy!"

Irritation itched under Harry's skin, scraping along the path of his veins. "Mrs. Figg's expecting me, Aunt Petunia. I can't just blow her off."

"You're _not_ coming into this house like _that_."

"I need to clean up," Harry said impatiently. "Give me five minutes, and I'll be gone. Please."

After a long moment, Aunt Petunia pursed her thin lips. "Alright," she said at last. "Five minutes. Leave your shoes down here. And close that door before the neighbors see you."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The door snapped shut. He toed his trainers off, and trudged up the stairs. His shower was a quick one, ruffling his dark hair under the warm stream and hastily scooping water under his arms, scrubbing at the salt left by the receding shoreline of his pores. He tightened the tap, the gear squeaking under his hand, and toweled himself dry. Dressed himself in clothes he cared little for. Refastened his watch. Didn't bother brushing his hair—it did what it wanted, despite previous efforts to tame it in years past—and with a passing glance at his reflection he exited the bathroom he shared with Dudley, dumping his dirty clothes carelessly into his room before closing the door. Aunt Petunia took to glowering at him from the kitchen, scrubbing violently at the tabletop, as he descended the stairs. Harry shoved his toes into his trainers with an "All right, all right, I'm _going_ ," and fled the house before she could say another word. Before he could properly tie his shoes. The frayed aglets flicked at the sidewalk as he hurried to Mrs. Figg's house, but Dudley and his friends had already left the playground by the time Harry passed. It wasn't long until he stood at the door, hands buried in his jean pockets after having knocked for her attention, and was ushered inside.

Mrs. Figg and the Dursleys lived in identically constructed houses, but Harry may as well have stepped into a different world. Whereas every piece of furniture in the Dursley home without tear and wrinkle, Mrs. Figg's was quite lived in, limp with exhaustion and garish in design. Cat paraphernalia, often cartoonish and tasteless, cluttered olive green walls. Mismatched shag rugs sprawled across the carpet and over one another, absorbing dust particles floating within the stuffy heat of cooked cabbage and cat piss. _Aunt Petunia would_ faint, Harry thought gleefully.

"There you are, Harry," Mrs. Figg said, a little more comfortably now that the door was closed and the blinds drawn. Harry sat on a browning floral couch, and was only slightly alarmed when he sunk into the cushion. Mrs. Figg had been gone for merely a moment and returned, tea rattling on a tray as she balanced its contents with the failing strength of her wrists. An envelope labeled 'Mr. H Potter' in a familiar looping hand lay underneath a steaming silver kettle. When Harry stood to help, she slapped at his hands.

"I may not be the Chosen One, but I'm not an invalid," she scowled.

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

"That's quite alright, dear," she warbled, and busied herself with making more than two cups, which confused Harry until he noticed the battalion of cats settled expectantly around the tartan ottoman, their long tails flicking occasionally, eyes unblinking upon Mrs. Figg and her task. She served them before him, and he waited with patient hands.

Once half a cuppa had scorched his esophagus and lay broiling in his stomach like lava in a dormant volcano, Harry remembered the words he'd exchanged with his neighbor earlier that day. "Mrs. Figg, you said something about Headquarters?"

The wrinkles on her neck pulled tight as she swallowed. "Grimmauld Place has sealed itself."

Harry nearly dropped his teacup. "What?"

"No one, not even Dumbledore, can get inside."

* * *

The castle halls stretched before Remus in a nostalgic tunnel of stone and chatter, centuries' worth of fade crawling downwards from clerestory windows kept bright with a wash of magic. His footsteps, unusually leisurely as he reminisced sounded hollowly against the smooth floor, tapping occasionally muted upon thick carpet as he gazed wistfully at the portraits patching otherwise bare walls: an unassuming man whittling his future on a birch slab, two wizards conspiring in the dark, and young girl gazing with quiet intent out a night-glossed window. Twelve staircases revolved above him, their hinges oiled with a sheen of old charms. Tarnished suits of armor stood erect on each corner, their helmets glinting under the guise of the afternoon sun as they slowly swiveled to keep Remus in sight as he passed by. Memories persisted at the corner of his eye, and he fought against the laughter in his ears, the spilling of footsteps as unruly boys fled the trouble that awaited them, against the happiness of days long since passed into an aching sadness.

Remus looked at his watch, and quickened his pace. After Grimmauld Place refused the admittance of its Secret Keeper, Dumbledore believed that, until a safe house could be constructed, they were to use Hogwarts' Room of Requirement for meetings. Still, such a thing would be far too risky to continue during the school year: a source of anxiety for all members of the Order of the Phoenix.

He had just stepped onto the third floor landing when the whisper of familiar voices tugged at his senses. Alert before he was consciously aware, Remus paused. Tilted his head. He was almost at once rewarded for his instincts when Albus Dumbledore rounded the corner, Professor Filius Flitwick all but trotting at his side. The coupling was almost jarring: whilst Dumbledore's height was made all the more intimidating by the point of his hat, Flitwick was often dwarfed by the children he taught.

". . . have to take a look yourself, Albus; it was as if Mr. Longbottom, bless his kind soul, had accidentally conjured another small tornado," Flitwick was saying, the white whiskers sprouting from his cheeks and chin vibrating with nervous excitement. He wrung his small, clever hands as he peered anxiously up at a rather solemn Dumbledore. "My office, completely trashed! It just doesn't make any sense. I've nothing to do with this war, not yet, at least, so why my office?"

His face fell slightly, and he waved chapped palms in quiet distress. "Don't get me wrong, Albus. I find that group of yours terribly noble, and you know I'll assist you when I'm needed, but I've quite enough on my plate as it is." He nodded in a self-assured way that brought a young James Potter to Remus' mind. "But my office! I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to offer."

"I wouldn't say nothing," Dumbledore demurred. "You are a formidable wizard in your own right."

Flitwick made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Hosh posh, Dumbledore. You know what I meant," he said, exasperated. "I asked Argus if he knew anything about it, but he too has been away—in Kent until today, I might add. Hagrid, of course, doesn't come into the castle with the professors on sabbatical, and I highly doubt he would do such a thing to me. At first, I had believed the work to be the fault of Peeves, but, well . . ."

"No, no, it wouldn't be," Dumbledore murmured softly. "Was anything taken?"

Flitwick frowned. "That's the strangest thing: nothing was. Drawers overturned, yes. Correspondence, papers, spare parchment—everything on the floor. Nothing permanently damaged—nothing that couldn't be set right with a wand, strictly speaking—and the valuables I have here remained untouched. The strangest robbery, if it was one—oh, hello, Remus! Such a pleasure to see you again!"

Inner warmth at those words touched at Remus' smile before he thought to constrain it. "Good afternoon, Filius, Albus. Have you a pleasant summer so far?"

Flitwick bounced on his toes, good cheer unhindered by his troubles. "Ah, just a small spot of bother, but otherwise in great spirits. I've a good feeling about this year, especially now the school has been exorcised of all unpleasantness."

Remus tucked his laugh into a quiet hollow place. "I'm to understand you have the Weasley twins to thank for that."

"And Mr. Potter and Miss Granger. I may have to give Gryffindor a starting advantage in the running for the House Cup this year." If possible, Flitwick's jovial smile widened, smoothing age away like water on wrinkled clay. He turned to Dumbledore, who had been patiently waiting with amusement twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "Well, I'm off for the day. If you hear anything about who was in my office and why, I'd like to speak to him. I can't decide if I'm impressed or put out that he bypassed all my wards. Good afternoon!" And with that he left, taking the stairs from which Remus came, whistling a familiar haunting tune as he went.

"Such a good man, Filius," Dumbledore said conversationally. Flitwick's whistled song skittered faintly across the stone. "Knowledgeable in more than just his specialty, a strong sense of moral standing, and quite the Gobstones expert." He then peered at Remus from over his long, crooked nose, blue eyes an ice pick to Remus' guarded soul. Remus held his breath, grief quite distant from the small island of remembrance he'd allowed himself, and relaxed when Dumbledore looked away, gesturing to the rising staircase behind them. It stilled with a hollowed thud. "Shall we?"

Silence sifted between them, uninterrupted by the near matched rhythm of footsteps and the hushed sweeping of Dumbledore's deep purple robe. Dumbledore always had a colorful wardrobe, but this was stitched masterpiece: gold thread wove intricately at the hem, up the velvet arms, and around the twinkling stars pinned to the fabric with astronomical accuracy. The constellation of Canis Major beamed at him from the headmaster's shoulder. Remus shook his head, bewildered and feeling woefully underdressed: in aged slacks and a white button-up, Remus hadn't time to change into his robes after another unsuccessful day in the Muggle world.

As though reading his mind, Dumbledore queried, "Any luck today, Remus?"

"It's like he disappeared," Remus croaked, mouth sour at the countless theories he'd been entertaining. "Bathilda was the only reliable source in Godric's Hollow, but after she sent the imposter to the graveyard, she hadn't seen him. There were reported sightings of the Boy Who Lived appearing briefly in Diagon Alley . . ."

Interest glimmered in Dumbledore's eyes. "Such a public place."

"And from what I've learned, I suspect the imposter didn't want to be seen at all. Hooded, but wearing Muggle clothes, so he was noticeable anyway. One eyewitness account of him breaking into the abandoned wand shop, but said eyewitness also seemed to believe she was in an Egyptian Bazaar . . ."

"Cairo or Luxor?" Dumbledore inquired interestedly.

"Farafra, actually," Remus said, quite used to random digressions. "Either way, it doesn't help us in the least. I was unable to access the wandshop . . . where _is_ Ollivander, by the way? It's not like him to be gone this close to the school year."

"That, I'm afraid, is to be a topic for today's meeting."

Shock was quick in his system, filtering in a rush down the length of his spine. Taken, then.

Dumbledore nodded along with Remus' thoughts, and led him down a more frequented passageway, behind a garish tapestry depicting Apollo and Daphne. The castle closed around them, height sinking so dramatically that Dumbledore had to remove his hat. This particular passageway, Remus knew, would deposit them directly out at the seventh floor, near the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.

"You know, I'd always thought of Hogwarts as an impenetrable fortress," Remus said, pulling a spider from his sleeve.

"Many make that same mistake," Dumbledore said lightly. "Remember, it was only a few years ago that Voldemort himself occupied the unfortunate Quirnius Quirrell in hopes of acquiring the Philosopher's Stone."

Remus could think of another, more recent example, but if Dumbledore wasn't going to bring it up, then neither was he. "But how was it done?"

"The question is not how, but why," Dumbledore mused quietly. Firelight glinted off his spectacles in a sheet of orange. "Theoretically, anyone can walk through the front door. The gates, however . . . an entirely different matter altogether."

"How so?"

"Those gates are only open when the headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts commands them to be so. Otherwise, they open to no one else except those in the greatest of need."

"That explains why we had to find other ways out of the castle," Remus commented wryly, plagued with visions of James, wide smile and mischievous hazel eyes, pulling up the hood of his invisibility cloak and disappearing completely, as though he'd never existed. Of giggling young boys tripping over themselves learning to move together unseen. Of Sirius' grand excitement upon discovering that, if there was a tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack, then, _logically_ (the word Sirius had used at thirteen, grey eyes glittering and animated face flushed), there should be others. It was a _castle,_ after all. And what good would Hogwarts be if it didn't have a secret means of escape?

Dumbledore chuckled. "The trouble with teaching clever boys," he said, and it sounded like the start of a proverb. He ducked to emerge from faded blue curtains, parting the velvet with long knobby fingers as though passing through the downpour of a waterfall. Remus followed close behind.

When they arrived at the left corridor, the afternoon sun had relinquished its strength and now weakly poured through arched windows, light dripping dimly upon suits of armor and dulled red carpet. A familiar group of people stood in a thick crowd awry the Room's entrance, presently now a blank stretch of stone running parallel an interpretation of Barnabas the Barmy (who really shouldn't have been by the trolls' feet as he taught them ballet). As a boy, Peter had thought the tapestry a chronic source of amusement.

The group greeted Dumbledore warmly, all jumping over themselves for his attention—almost like children greeting a favored parent—and Remus faded back, skirting the edges of the group to wait quietly. At least, that had been the plan until a small, ivory hand latched onto his elbow and paired with a chipper, "Wotcher, Remus!"

Nymphadora Tonks. Pink-haired and attractive only in the way a Black could be, she smiled brightly up at him, a cheerful kindness that always sent a shock to his stomach, and Remus struggled to return it. Upon their first meeting last year, he'd been forever convinced she was under a constant Cheering Charm. And how brave she was, to smile at something like him.

Slightly uncomfortable, distracted by the contradiction of his mind and heart, Remus shuffled minutely back, subtle enough as to not hurt her feelings (and dare he think so highly of himself, that _he_ had the potential to affect anyone in that way?). His monstrosity was a fact, and he worked to keep himself tame. From yearning to be a normal man who deserved friends and family and affection. He knew better.

Dumbledore ceased his pacing, and an ornate door etched itself upon the wall. Many gasped at the appearance of the new door, and within the group of agape Order members, an attractive blonde Remus had never met blinked and muttered something vulgar in French. What Remus found interesting was the lack of reaction from Fred and George Weasley, despite this being their first Order meeting.

"Did you just create a new room, Albus?" Hestia Jones asked interestedly, inspecting the maroon door that now broke the monotony of the blank wall. Within its middle perched a golden knocker, fixed as a crowing phoenix in flight.

"In a way," Dumbledore said vaguely.

"What a remarkable piece of magic!" exclaimed Diggle, bouncing excitedly on his toes.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, stepping aside to allow members' entrance. "Hogwarts has a plethora of undiscovered secrets. Why, in my sixties I came upon a room of extreme magnificence in the dungeons, and have been unable to find it since . . ."

Remus entered the room behind Tonks, and the rest of the conversation was lost as other Order members warmed the room with a mumbling reminiscent of a late night fire. Dumbledore's request for the Room of Requirement was predictably stylish, comfortable, and spacious. Overstuffed armchairs, preening underneath otherworldly patterns, peppered the room at random, a few crowding the unlit fireplace at the back. Others seemed to have been pushed against papered walls, floral and deep blue, to make room for a large round table prepared to seat all underneath an iron cast chandelier, which dipped inward from the ceiling, weighed with _lumos_ light.

Remus sat himself at the far end of the table, content to watch as the rest of the Order congregated into predictable groups. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, face ripped apart and put together again with hasty wand work ( _anyone can pose as a Healer, Lupin, remember that)_ , grumbled to Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose bass was determinable underneath the flow of voices. Bill Weasley, serious despite his long hair and earring, conversed lowly with his parents, arm around the foul-mouthed blonde beauty. The aged Elphias Doge hunched into himself, shy and nervous compared to an exuberant Diggle, who had apparently recovered from his crippling awe of the Room's magic enough to regale a tale from his youth. Grinning identically, Fred and George Weasley simultaneously steered a jumpy Mundungus Fletcher to the fireplace, eyes glinting with foul promise. Tonks engaged Hagrid in something of friendly banter, pointy elbows ribbing a thick, moleskin coat. And lastly, Severus Snape, who stood quite tritely in the corner of the room, arms crossed over chest, dark eyes fathomless and glaring over his hooked nose. The black of his clothes and hair clung to the shadows of his chosen solitude.

Considering his compatriots, Remus suddenly realized that this was the first full Order meeting since the events at the Department of Mysteries. And yet, he couldn't help but feel they were one short.

His throat closed around his grief, thick and sniffling behind his careful mask of impassivity. Something of his melancholy must have slipped, however, as Snape smirked at him from across the room, sallow face lifting upwards. Remus merely smiled and looked away. Some things never changed; some people never grew up.

A heavy weight—brief, coarse, strong—drew him roughly from his self-imposed misery. "Alright there, Laddie?"

Remus blinked up at Moody, whose patchwork face was a study of grim understanding; a slight uplift of the right corner of his lip, the other side lost in the lattice of angry scar tissue.

"Good afternoon, Alastor," Remus said pleasantly, ignoring the question as the esteemed ex-Auror dropped in the seat to Remus' left, rubbing at his calf where mood meshed with stump. Although Remus could only see the back of Moody's grizzled hair, Remus knew a certain electric blue eye whizzed in his direction.

 _Better to see you with, my dear_ , Remus thought with dark amusement.

"How was Cardiff?" he asked.

"Horrid," Moody growled, now upright. "Wet. I fucking _hate_ Cardiff. The lead was shit—just some strung out kids snorting ground adder's fork. Idiots. Going on about Inferi crawling out of the ground like bloody lawn gnomes. I tracked them through the fucking sewers when I realized there was nothing _to_ track. Warped my wooden leg, which was supposed to be weather-proof. But Dung's been short on his deals before . . . maybe it's time to reacquaint him with my wand . . ." he trailed off portentously, gnarled hand reaching into his pocket.

"Constant vigilance, Alastor," Remus said mildly. "You're getting soft, I fear. But don't you think you're moving too fast? Trusting your fellow man is a fairly large step into becoming a compassionate human being."

Moody's grin widened, splitting his curse-pocked cheek in a slit not unlike a slashed throat. It was terrifying. "Calling me soft, lover boy?"

Ah. Now the conversation was moving along the road less traveled. Time for a strategic retreat.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Alastor," Remus said calmly. Very _smooth, Lupin, old chap. He'll never catch on with that remark. You might as well have thrown yourself at the poor girl._

Moody looked positively devious. "You know, you had me convinced for the longest time that you couldn't _do_ that touchy stuff. That while Black basically followed wherever his dick led him, you were an empty well."

Remus nearly choked on his own saliva. So used to the eggshells others had placed around him, he hadn't expected Moody to trample on through with a comment like _that_. Not that he minded—he'd rather things go on normally. He wasn't about to collapse at the mention of his recently deceased best friend. But, of all people to have this talk with, he ended up with Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, a man whose paranoia had him setting curses and traps against himself.

Vastly uncomfortable, Remus cast shifting eyes about for Dumbledore, trying to will the meeting to start before Moody ran away with his twisted imagination. And what great luck it was that Professor McGonagall finally arrived, instantly capturing the headmaster's attention. Remus fought the rabbit urge to run.

"I couldn't decide if you were dry," Moody continued, "or one to rub wands."

Remus really did choke this time. "And you mix your metaphors," he said, unable to help himself.

"But you repress everything, don't you, lover boy?"

"Alright!" Remus said hoarsely. _Jesus Christ._ "Alright, I get it. Don't call you soft."

"You're goddamned right I'm not," Moody growled. "Soft." He snorted in derision, and his magic eye rolled sickeningly. "You're lucky I like you, Laddie, or you'd be spewing something foul."

Remus cleared his throat, but the discomfort remained. "I think I'd rather the hex next time, Alastor. Food for thought."

Moody chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, but his mirth tapered off into a gravelly cough as Dumbledore ( _finally)_ called for order. A hush fell upon them all, drowning conversation in silence. Within a minute each member had seated him- or herself at the round table, the screech of chairs pulled back muffled by rich rugs underfoot. Even Snape, who had been brooding in his corner like a pissed off shadow, broke away from the wall to join them.

"There is much to discuss," Dumbledore said quietly, still standing. Silence rang between his words, an echo of understanding that faded to nothing. "With Lord's Voldemort's return now legitimized by the Ministry of Magic, our enemy has the freedom to act in ways previously unavailable. For those not old enough to remember, I would like you to review our case files on the First War; humans are creatures of habit, and I've no doubt similar patterns will arise. Already news of disappearances have captured my interest—few, I'll admit, but the sooner we catch on to their game, the better prepared we will be when they make their move. And from what I've heard," Dumbledore added, gesturing lightly to Kingsley and Tonks, "the Ministry will be of limited help."

"And why is zat?" asked the attractive blonde in passionate outrage. A caret formed between her pale eyebrows.

"Fixing Fudge's mistakes and scanning government personnel, for one, is a long process, Fleur." Old, serene hands folded atop one another, movements slow and patient. "But it is rather unfortunate that the new minister refuses to prioritize missing witches and wizards; at the moment, I fear Scrimgeour's rather busy fielding the press, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Rome was not built in a day, as they say, and it's only been a few weeks since his inauguration."

The caret deepened, thoughtful, but Fleur held her silence. Remus was wondering what stakes a French woman had in a British war when Dumbledore continued, "Which is why I decided that we would recover the missing ourselves."

"Sticking it to the man," said one Weasley twin, nodding almost to himself. "I like it."

"It's like our last year at Hogwarts, George." The other sighed with the nostalgia of an old man.

"It better not be," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly very stern.

Before the twins had a chance to continue, the eldest Weasley child raised his voice: "Who's missing, Dumbledore?"

The headmaster didn't waste time, perhaps also fearing the two-man act that was the Weasley twins. "Quiel Vance, brother of our late Emmeline, gone from his London apartment earlier this month. Reginald Cattermole and his wife have also disappeared, although thankfully their three small children remain, and have been relocated accordingly. Florean Fortescue has yet to be recovered from his destroyed shop. And Garrick Ollivander."

The last had been a shock to many of the Order—it was a bold move on Voldemort's part to abduct such a well-known name—and noises of dismay made their run about the table, a broken record skipping and running the same lines of thought continuously. Other than the unpredicted and simultaneous "I guess this means no more free ice cream" from the Weasley twins, words of disbelief continued strong.

Hestia Jones, ever the voice of reason, asked, "Why would You-Know-Who go after a wandmaker? Or an ice cream vendor, for that matter?" Her voice, husky and authoritative, carried above the others and settled their interest, snuffing their comments as a cap upon a candle flame.

"I cannot say for certain," Dumbledore said cautiously. "But I have a general idea."

Moody growled, bashing his staff against the edge of the table. "Spit it out, Dumbledore. We haven't got all day."

Despite a noise of discontent from Elphias Dodge, Dumbledore's beard twitched once before speaking: "The Ollivander family deals its heirlooms in secrets of the trade. I imagine that Voldemort, who has desired all his life to be different, does not care to possess the brother wand to our young Mr. Potter. They share the same wand core—a feather from the same phoenix—which produces a rather unique effect of _Priori Incantatem_ whenever they duel. It was what saved Harry's life during the Triwizard Tournament, and will continue to do so."

"Why not just get a new wand, then?" Arthur ventured, homely face belying the intelligence behind round glasses. "Why go through the trouble of kidnapping?"

Hesitation paused the headmaster's expression, only briefly. "I feel he desires not a common conduit, but knowledge. He desires something more . . . volatile," Dumbledore said at last, oddly reluctant. "As for Florean, he's well versed in History of Magic—very well versed. His O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores were beyond Outstanding. However, Florean Fortescue specializes in myth and legend, and I find it very likely that Voldemort searches for old relics, for powerful magical objects that have been lost for centuries—some of you know this already," Dumbledore murmured, "but it bears repeating: Voldemort will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants, and there is a great chance that each person kidnapped factors into his ultimate scheme to reign over all."

They were on the ocean floor again, silence rolling over them in heavy waves as Dumbledore's words sank in. When the meeting continued, determination lined each and every one of their faces—even that of the Weasley twins—and Remus suddenly knew, with both a great disquiet and great pride, that Voldemort would have to kill every single person in that Room if he wanted to achieve such a goal.

* * *

Dusk was drawing its dreary duvet when Mrs. Figg finally allowed Harry to leave. In the quickly darkening gradient of the late afternoon sky, Little Whinging grew fuzzy and grey, vibrant summer dulled with the pending rise of the moon. Shadows crept from the recesses of each house, stretching eager fingers into the night as if to grasp Harry by the collar and pull him in. Harry took a deep breath, hands in the pockets of his oversized jeans. Although the night was far from cool, numbness spread throughout Harry, filtering through emotion and thought that threatened to crush him completely. Though Privet Drive was only a five minute walk, it seemed lengthened as Harry recited Dumbledore's words:

 _Dear Harry,_

 _Due to the inaccessible nature of your godfather's will and estate, it is prudent that you remain at Number Four Privet Drive until mid-morning on the First of September, at which time an Order member will escort you to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters._

 _Unfortunately, the recent climate of the wizarding world will not permit a trip to Diagon Alley to collect supplies for the start of term. Kindly send your class list, as well as any other items you may require, in your next update to the Order, and your supplies will be purchased accordingly. If I'm not mistaken, your testing results should be sent within the week._

 _I do wish you the best of summer days,_

 _Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore_

Harry hadn't understood the first time he read the letter. Or the second. Or the fifth. Disbelief had overwhelmed him in that moment, and he needed Mrs. Figg to take pity on him and explain: Grimmauld Place had closed itself off to everyone, even Dumbledore, its Secret Keeper. Kreacher, who knew Order members and secrets, could not be called. Sirius' will could not be read, having sealed itself even to the goblins who held it.

There was no longer a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.

Apparently Dumbledore had feared something of this nature, and believed the solution to have been in Sirius' will, but none could gain access to its contents. Not even Sirius' favorite cousin Andromeda Tonks, the lesser of three evils. Bellatrix Lestrange, as the eldest Black sister, would have been the first with rights to claim the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, had her seniority conquered her gender in the old Black family tradition of primogeniture. Small mercies, Mrs. Figg had said, that the Blacks were old-fashioned, misogynist bigots.

Still, as Sirius had no sons of his own, Grimmauld Place was more likely to fall into the hands of the next male heir in the Black line: Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa Malfoy and the youngest of Sirius' cousins. That alone made Harry nauseas with rage and disgust. However, according to Mrs. Figg, the Order believed Death Eaters had not gained access to the house, either. It was as though it had died with the last of the Blacks.

This meant that Harry had to stay with the Dursleys; the Dursleys who starved him, the Dursleys who hated him, the Dursleys who'd leave him on another doorstep if they had the choice. Harry's teeth gritted against the wrath that threatened to coil through the grate of his mouth. He was forced to the very prison his mother's love kept him safe.

Harry had left Mrs. Figg's house soon after, his tea cup cold with neglect and scones untouched. Despite his earlier hunger, he couldn't bring himself to eat. He hadn't spent a whole summer with the Dursleys since before his first year.

His left hand clenched around a well-read letter, forming a cage with his fingers.

 _. . . it is prudent you remain at Number Four Privet Drive until mid-morning on the First of September . . ._

 _. . . inaccessible nature of your godfather . . ._

 _. . . will_ not _permit a trip to Diagon Alley . . ._

 _. . . I do wish you the best of summer days . . ._

 _I'll tell you what you can do with your summer days,_ Harry thought savagely, kicking at a loose rock on the sidewalk. It skid recklessly into grass inky with the last dregs of sunlight. September was so fucking far away.

A brittle crack like breaking bones ricocheted in the dying day. Harry turned immediately to the source, wand in hand, spell pressing against his lips. Night trembled before his vision, shifting with every pulse of his heart. Yellow circles from streetlamps became fuzzy as they reached for the dark, barely touching upon empty sidewalks and parked cars. He was alone. And yet, something moved in the shadows. Anticipation cinched his muscles into stillness, his knuckles creaking around slender holly—

—And almost immediately Harry lowered his wand, the tip now aimed for the curb. It was a stag. Just a stag. Harry blinked at the animal, fear and awe stilling his feet. Apart from the occasional owl, wildlife was a rare treat in Little Whinging.

Panic slowly released its icy hold on Harry's lungs, and he took in a breath of summer. It warmed him, and he lowered his wand completely, chuckling as he returned it to his back pocket. Just a stag. Harry recognized the wariness in its stature as the same within Harry himself, but he didn't want to give up this moment quite yet. It was a magnificent creature: white chested amongst sleek dark fur; powerful, willowy legs, poised in preparation for flight; antlers like tree branches curving upwards and out, circling in as though to crown its glorious head; dark eyes wide enough Harry could see slivers of white, even from across the street.

The moment broke. The animal blinked and dashed in the opposite direction, prancing over a low hedge and continuing to flee in a diagonal zig-zag. The white underside of its tail flicked once, and was lost to the evening.

Harry shook his head and continued his trek to number four. He hoped Mr. Genus the Important Private Investor would have gone by now, but, as it was only seven at night, Harry highly doubted it. Dumbledore wanted him to stay at Privet Drive for the rest of the summer. Lupin was wary of Harry leaving the house. Harry suspected neither would be particularly pleased he was outside, alone in the dropping dark, but he knew for a fact his aunt and uncle would not appreciate him coming in while they were still engaging a guest. Harry's reentry, then, depended on whether they were boasting about in the kitchen, the living room, or the backyard. As he walked, Harry entertained false feats of escalating ridiculousness worthy of a James Bond film.

By the time Harry neared the walkway of number four, dusk was merely a sliver of roses bleeding into a darkening hue, the darkest point a spillage of black above Harry's head. The roofs of identical houses blocked the rosy sliver once Harry crept to a corner of the house near the flowering agapanthus, crouching low enough so he wouldn't be seen by people either inside or outside the house. Porch light bled onto the front lawn of number four, staining darkness with an imitation of its vivid daytime contrast. Light permeated through lace curtains, and Harry was treated to a blend of moving colors. They were in the living room, then.

Keeping low, legs burning from his continued crouch, Harry crept towards the back door, allowing the porch light to slip off as he embraced the shadows of the house. Aspiring night, warm and clean with the scent of freshly clipped grass, filtered to his lungs. Harry paused at the slant of white through the glass window of the back door, heart in his throat, and exhaled a breath when he realized the kitchen was empty.

Quietly, oh so slowly Harry pulled the sliding door open, careful to keep the heavy rollers hushed, slipped through to the kitchen, and pulled the back door closed behind him. His reflection, tousle-haired and tired, bleached out the nighttime garden in the glass.

"You mentioned you had a son," a deep, unfamiliar voice rumbled from outside the kitchen, muffled by wood and distance as it pressed through thin walls. This must be the investor.

"Yes. Dudley," Uncle Vernon boasted. The couch groaned, leather creaking as Harry's uncle moved. Harry winced in sympathy and stole to the hallway. Under the electrical light the cupboard's locks gleamed ominously. "He's the strapping lad in the photo behind you."

"Boxing champion at Smeltings," Aunt Petunia interjected, shrill in her nerves.

Harry's fingers tensed against wallpaper, palming blank spaces between happy photos, and he toed his way to the staircase.

"Lovely," the investor said smoothly, neither sarcastic nor interested. "Do you have any other children?"

"No." Harry's aunt and uncle's answer was sudden, loud, and together. Harry grimaced and swung himself onto the staircase, using the nevel cap as an anchor. It was a hideous thing—a polished ball the size of a quaffle—but it served its purpose: Harry landed agilely and without sound. Each sequential stride was quick with practice, avoiding every creak and groove in seventeen steps.

"Pity," the investor said. There was a little tick of metal, a creak of leather, and a firm hush. "I have two boys, myself . . ."

Harry allowed himself to breath once he reached the second landing. Light struggled through the cracks outlining Dudley's closed door, but there was hardly a sound from his cousin's room at all. Harry entered his own, feeling a little disjointed, and nearly tripped over a beaten trunk as he closed the door quietly behind him.

Breath crystallized in his lungs. Upon the top in curling letters was the name 'Lily M. Evans.'

* * *

 **.**

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 **Updated: October 2016**

 **Thanks to BrilliantLady, who suggested clarifications, and Guest, who wanted a more canon Harry. He won't be perfect, since there are developments that require him to be a bit OOC, but hopefully this one's more acceptable :)**


	3. Kundalini

Chapter 3

Harry didn't know for how long he stood staring at his mother's trunk. Time froze, breathless with the same blank anticipation as the peak before a fall, everything that made him Harry smoothed into nonbeing before he remembered himself and inhaled. His lungs ached. Stretched as air crawled with indelicate urgency down strained pipes. Skinny thighs protested as he lowered into a crouch, perched on the ball of each foot as though atop a crumbling precipice. Something trembled within him as he reached out to trace the space above each letter. _Lily M. Evans._ He wondered what the 'M' stood for.

It was a beautifully crafted trunk. Thick strips of wood brushed with autumn and faded with time embraced a body engraved with full blooms. Interlocking stems curled around and behind each petal, sweeping along his mother's name with a careless effort that bespoke the artistry of its maker. Golden locks spotted with neglect winked at him. Where had this come from? What had he done to deserve such a treat? Before he submitted to a greater fear Harry placed his hand upon the looping 'Lily,' the hollows of each letter pressing against his palm. His fingertips tingled. The greater fear coalesced as sweat in the tender lines splitting his palm. This was his mother's. Something she owned. Used. Touched. He'd never had something of his mother's before. Longing burrowed bluntly within him, striking dully as his fear shredded completely through the courage lingering just at the surface, uncovering the long forgotten hole of childhood daydreams best left in his cupboard.

Harry exhaled shakily. He knew very little about his mother; everyone seemed only to eulogize James. _His_ greatness. _His_ talent. Surely, his mother had been great and talented, as well. It was only last year he found out that before she was a Potter, she had been an Evans. And from what Harry had witnessed ( _Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean_ ), his mum _hated_ his dad.

An unfamiliar sorrow pricked at the corner of his eyes, but indescribable curiosity cleared his vision. He reached to flip the tarnished clasp, but he hesitated, and pulled back. Where _had_ this come from? Before today, Harry hadn't even been aware of its existence. He doubted even Uncle Vernon knew—surely the man would have used its potential destruction to control Harry, to torment him, to 'keep him in line.' And it would have worked. Harry couldn't imagine his aunt, the thin, waspish thing she was, dragging the trunk up or down _any_ amount of stairs. As for Dudley, precious Dinky Diddydums who had anything he could possibly want, he couldn't be bothered with any physical activity that didn't involve the express usage of his Smeltings refined boxing skills, couldn't be bothered with anything that didn't result in his direct gratification.

Harry's hand faltered on the letters, and he drew it back. This didn't seem right.

 _You're a walking target to multiple parties_ , Lupin had said, ringing clear as it had nearly a month ago. It spoke exhaustion and disquiet into Harry's ear: _You must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection._

It was then Harry didn't realize the extent of the blood wards. He'd never asked. He always assumed they encompassed the entirety of Little Whinging, but now, he wasn't so sure.

He licked his lips, despising the taste of dread. His aunt's comments about the yard earlier today were now making a terrible sort of sense.

 _The Potter men have quite the distinctive look._

"Someone's impersonating me." His whisper was a creak in the floorboards. The Dursleys wouldn't have noticed the difference. _Hadn't_ noticed the difference. The imposter had, more or less, walked up to the front door, acted as Harry, and left something for him to find.

Aunt Petunia's shrill, nervous laughter poked holes in his concentration, and he stood, spooked. Had the imposter been biding his time, watching, waiting until Harry left the house to take his place? The Dursleys wouldn't have even known such a thing was possible. Would have let him do as he very well pleased, as they let Harry do as he very well pleased. The imposter would have had every opportunity to leave something damning behind without anyone knowing the wiser, without _Harry_ knowing the wiser. But Harry knew his relatives better than they knew him. They would have _never_ given Harry this trunk.

Was this even his mother's trunk?

Harry kept his footsteps light as he edged carefully around the trunk, feeling very keenly his ignorance of the magical world, having been raised in isolation from it. In his curiosity he had forgotten the nature of hexes and curses. He'd fallen back on the instincts of a Muggle. Magic didn't exist here. Moody would have been so disappointed.

Now aware, paranoia drummed suspicious fingers on his collarbone, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Was this another Riddle's diary, tasked with trapping Harry inside? Did the imposter lurk about number four still, waiting until Harry was indisposed before collecting the trunk while the Dursleys slept safe in their beds?

Harry sat at the desk now, straddling the back of the chair, left arm pillowing his wand-wielding right, now pointed at the trunk. The trap. This was a novel situation, surrounded by Muggles as he cowered with an empty owl cage and a wand he couldn't use. The Order no longer dogged his every step, and for the first time he wished they stood outside his window once more. He didn't want to risk underage magic, but he knew he'd defend himself if he had to. Statue of Secrecy be damned. Despite Hermione's rather backward priorities, when death stalked one's every waking hour, expulsion would always be the best choice. Perhaps then, if Harry got himself expelled, the Order would tell him what the fuck was going on.

Harry's eyes itched, leaden with the sandman's inconveniently timed gift. He pressed the fingers of his free hand to his eyelid, rubbing fatigue away underneath his glasses. Only until Hedwig returned. He needed to stay awake until Hedwig returned. His wand arm drooped, elbow straining with a fresh ache of hyperextension, slender holly now targeting a quite forgotten pile of laundry in the corner of his room. He blinked, adjusted his posture. Just until Hedwig came. He needed to let Lupin know.

Bleary and muddled, his eyelids merely a buoy in the rushing tide of sleep, Harry realized rather belatedly he'd left the bedroom light on. The harsh beam highlighted the abundance of dust and neglect scouring every nook and cranny. Really, Harry thought as he crossed the room, he should do something about that. He'd pinched the switch between his finger and thumb when hinges groaned behind him, hollow in the lonely silence of Dudley's second bedroom. Harry turned, wand hand thrown to the still the potential threat with one of his own, and nearly relieved himself in terror when he found it empty. He was helpless to watch, heart prodding insistently at his throat, as the trunk opened to a chasm of shadows, darkness spilling into the light of the room. His vision shifted, flickering as though his eyelids blinked from the side. Bony fingers latched onto the trunk's lip. From the pitch a man ascended, sandy hair ruffled, shadows slinking off broad shoulders and dissipating in silent puffs before touching upon the ground.

Harry staggered back, tripping over his feet. "No," he mumbled, words blank with incredulity as horror tore them from his tongue. They dashed to pieces on the floor. "No, not you—I saw—I—you can't _be_ here, you're _dead—"_

A grin fractured the gaunt face of Bartimus Crouch Junior. "Not dead," he said, and a tongue stole from his mouth, wetting lips torn bloody by impatient fingers. "Just Kissed."

Harry's back hit the door. Shock pilfered coherency from his mind. "You literally _can't_ be here! It's not _possible_! There's no way—"

Laughter crashed around Harry, and for a moment it was all he could hear. He screwed his eyes against the hysteria, lids bolted shut as though to escape such violation by pretending it didn't exist. Everything about this situation screamed impossible, but Barty Crouch screamed louder.

Abruptly, it stopped. Harry opened his eyes. Crouch had stepped from the trunk, no longer swirling in darkness but clad in tatty robes. "You did this," he said, face pointed with raw edges, tilting upwards in a mad parody of mirth. He held the Goblet of Fire with both hands. "You're the reason I'm like this."

"You deserved all you got," Harry spat. His knees trembled.

"All sons are loyal to their fathers," Crouch said. He spoke like Harry wasn't there. Tar still as glass filled the goblet, creeping up the sides with its taint before resting as Crouch unsettled its parallel plane. "And I am most loyal."

Harry didn't understand. "You _killed_ your father!"

"I am most loyal," Crouch repeated. "Even in death. Now drink."

"What?"

"Drink the elixir. It's full of stones."

"What the—no!" Harry's fingers groped for the doorknob, but his grasp was too slick.

Pestilence streaked Crouch's unblinking eyes, pupils impossibly wide. "You must do your part, as I do mine. It is your turn to drink."

Harry's hand encircled the knob and twisted, but it broke off in his hand. He echoed the sharp despair within him.

"Drink so the dead can rise."

"No! Get away from me!"

Harry pushed against the man, and nearly vomited when flesh gave way to bone underneath piecemeal robes. The contents of the goblet, smooth as stone, was icy against his lips. He sewed his mouth against invasion, and the potion bubbled down his chin, teasing along his jawline before dribbling onto his shirt. Wandless, weakened, and physically smaller, Harry felt fourteen again, dazed and frightened before the Death Eater who had been his mentor, his ally, his _friend_ , not understanding the betrayal even as it happened. Harry opened his eyes, and he was back at his desk, straddling the chair as he faced his mother's trunk, which sat innocuous and unopened in the middle of Dudley's second bedroom. Crouch was nowhere to be seen. His wand hand was empty. Worry embraced him briefly before he kicked out, and the wand rolled from under his toes, slowly rotating, stopped by a lone and rather mottled sock a few feet away. Moisture collected in the dip of his chin, and he swiped clumsily at it, bewildered as he stared at the translucent liquid wetting his palm. There was a damp spot on his shirt. Drool. Harry straightened the glasses on his nose and ran a hand through his hair. It was just a dream. The twittering of birds, muffled by a sheet of glass, sounded the morning's rise behind him. Sunlight warmed his clothed back, skin chilled from a night without his thin but serviceable duvet. His head pounded lightly, and faded into the minutes.

 _Just a dream,_ Harry repeated to himself, rubbing a crick in his neck. Soreness spread from the base of his spine to his nape. The terror of his dream leached from him in wakefulness, leaving him rather light and rueful as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders gave with a delightful crack. He hadn't dreamt of Barty Crouch in a long time.

His shirt was drenched in nightmares, and he peeled it from his shoulders before pulling a clean one over his head. Last night's news had left him jumpy and inconsolable. He desperately wanted his mother's trunk to be real. And maybe it was, Harry allowed, tapping his wand to his lips. Perhaps his aunt had been feeling generous—a rare occurrence, but not an unwelcome one. There had been similar moments in his past: a cherry lollipop at five, reluctantly given for a reason still unknown today; her scarf, warm with use, around his neck when he was eight and blue at the lips in winter; the slot of his cupboard door shifted open to allow some light when he was young enough to still fear the dark. Fondness, tainted with bitter memories, trickled down the length of his chest, and he almost didn't recognize it for what it was.

 _Stockholm syndrome,_ a sarcastic voice whispered, but the thought made him feel oddly ungrateful.

There was an aggravated series of raps on the door. Impatient. Sharp. Enough so that Harry's chin jolted in the direction of the door before he was aware, pushing himself to a stand from his leisurely position on the dresser, atop which he left his wand to roll. Aunt Petunia's voice preceded her body:

"Are you up, Boy?" She pushed wider the door, stopped by Harry's aspiring mountain of dirty clothes. Her blonde hair was pinned back severely today, which exacerbated the sharp contours of her long, horse-like face. A shockingly yellow dress wrapped around her thin figure, tapering off at knobby knees. Tea with friends later, he presumed.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said dutifully, momentarily stunned from any clever retort by the dress' color.

Aunt Petunia narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing?" she asked suspiciously. Her glance skittered from the closed trunk to her feet before meeting Harry's eyes once more. If she was surprised it was there, she didn't let show.

"Contemplating the meaning of life," Harry said dully.

Painted lips pursed. "Shut up, Boy. I came up here to offer you a deal to atone for yesterday's cheek—"

Outrage grasped onto Harry's neck, forcing hot flush upwards. "Cheek?" He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. When he now being punished as a preventative measure? That was harsh, even for Aunt Petunia. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like you don't know what you've done," she snapped. "And be grateful. I fixed up that horrid mess you made of the front yard—"

A chilled sweat slipped from his hairline to the hem of his jeans. "Seriously, Aunt Petunia, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'll believe that when your parents come back to life," Aunt Petunia scoffed. Harry's fists clenched of their own accord. "You're a filthy little liar, and always have been. I could have told Vernon, you know. He'd have that attitude of yours corrected real quick, so for now on, you're going to do your chores like you ought to."

Mistaking Harry's silence for compliance, Aunt Petunia nodded, bony shoulders straightening as she inclined her head. "And don't take advantage of the situation," she said. "I told you to keep or throw away whatever you liked, as long as I didn't see it again. So what is this?" She gestured in the general area of her sister's old school trunk without looking at it.

Unease spasmed along the ridges in his spine. "When did I do this?" he asked.

"Are you stupid, Boy?" Aunt Petunia's question wasn't one for Harry to answer. "Yesterday morning, of course. Tracked dust all through the house—you'll be redoing the attic, by the way."

"That wasn't me, Aunt Petunia," he said, mouth incredibly dry. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

"What? Of course it was!"

"No, it wasn't." Leaden fact breached the tense air between them. In the course of his mounting horror, Harry's sense of self-preservation faltered. Aunt Petunia needed to understand. "I was at the park all day, and then had tea at Mrs. Figg's until seven last night. I didn't do any of my chores. I didn't move that trunk."

Why did he torture himself with lies of acceptance? He'd known it hadn't been a fucking gift.

* * *

 _Monday, 21 July 1996_

 _M_

 _Wizarding Examinations Authority_

 _Ministry of Magic, Educational Division_

 _Griselda Marchbanks, Head Examiner_

 _Ordinary Wizarding Level_

 _Harry James Potter has achieved the following O.W.L.'s:_

 _Astronomy: A_

 _Care of Magical Creatures: E_

 _Charms: E_

 _Defense Against the Dark Arts: O*_

 _Divination: P_

 _Herbology: E_

 _History of Magic: D_

 _Potions: O_

 _Transfiguration: E_

 _*Scores within the top fifth percentile are eligible for Merlin's Apprentice Accolade, honors of the highest academic achievement to be acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic._

* * *

It was Harry's birthday in ten days, and Ron Weasley didn't have a fucking clue what to get him.

Ron sat irritably in the kitchen, a plate of breakfast protected within the cave of his elbows. In his haste to respond to Mum's call, Ron didn't bother to change out of his Chudley Cannon themed pajama pants, nor did he tease the pillow fight from his hair, and in result was subject to Mum's fingers through the rising flame atop his head in complaint. Normally he wouldn't have minded all that much, if not for the glaring fact that one of his best mates, Hermione Granger, sat directly across the table, _giggling_ at him.

At least Fred and George no longer lived at home. That would have been a fucking _nightmare._

Of course, Hermione was already 'bright-eyed and bushy tailed.' Literally. The witch was already reading—bleeding barmy, in Ron's opinion, studying on holiday—and she'd somehow tamed her hair into a twisty thingy that baffled Ron to how it was done (not that he cared enough to ask—girls were always doing something stupid with their hair, but he had to admit that it looked nice, sometimes). She'd already recovered from her near hysteria over her perfect O.W.L. scores ( _Not perfect, Ronald. I was hardly adequate)_ , and as annoying as it had been to calm her down, it was also annoying she wouldn't stop reading for a bloody second. At least Harry would play chess or Quidditch or something.

Hermione, no doubt, got the poor sod a book. Upon countless occasions Ron tried talking his mad friend out of the crusade to over-educate the both of them, but she seemed determined that Harry, at least, would have his own bloody library by the time they left Hogwarts. Ron hated that mothering shit Hermione did sometimes—he got enough of that from his own mum, thanks very much—but, he supposed, Harry probably didn't mind. He was too nice sometimes. Still, Ron would be more considerate of Harry's interests. Something Quidditch related, he decided. Prescription goggles and practice snitches were expensive as shit, and it would likely force his parents to sell the Burrow to cover the costs of a new broom (not that Harry _needed_ a new broom; he had a fucking _Firebolt_ , something Ron doubted a swot like Malfoy would ever trick his jailbird dad into buying). Magazines were flashy, but not very useful (kinda like Lavendar Brown, now that he thought about it). Besides, mags were almost books. And Ron was _not_ getting Harry a book.

Ginny sat next to Hermione, chin in left hand while the right gloomily picked apart a perfectly good slice of toast. Ron bit into his own, golden brown and faintly salty, chewing thoughtfully as butter seeped from the bread into his gums. As he devoured the rest in a few well-placed bites, he may have made sounds reminiscent of the family ghoul. Merlin, he loved food.

Both girls stared at Ron, noses wrinkled and grimaces uneven.

"What?" he asked them, then swallowed the greasy ball that had once been his toast. Had Pig shit all over his collar again?

"You gonna start licking the plate, soon?" Ginny asked, brown eyes glinting. "Because if you are, I might have to ask you both to get a room. It's a little too early for that, I think."

Ron scowled as Hermione laughed. "I'm hungry, alright?" he said, glaring at his plate. Yellow eggs, scrambled into a fluff of edible cloud, steamed beneath his nose, brooding above a semi-circle of pink ham, browned edges curling to itself in delight. He was allowed to enjoy his food. It wasn't like he was Goyle, thick enough to eat a random cupcake he found in the castle. It could have been poisoned or something.

"Alright," Ginny said innocently, returning to her own plate. "Just as long as you keep it PG."

Why did she only do this in front of his mates? At least Fred and George had the good sense to keep it within the family.

Ron licked his lips, and scooped hot eggs into his mouth, choosing to ignore his sister. She was putting him off track. Harry's birthday gift. Ron still didn't have a clue. Mum was currently working on a care package, an activity that stuffed the Burrow with mouth-watering smells of chocolate cake, bacon sandwiches, mince pies, treacle tart . . . it tortured Ron to insanity with the knowledge that his lips would never grace that little slice of heaven his mum had been slaving over like a house elf, great big smile and all. It probably tasted better, too. She always tried harder when it wasn't her own family.

But, Ron reckoned, it was for a good cause. Muggles were mad if they thought salad and fruit and breadless chicken were what a growing boy needs. Ron supposed he would hate going back to the Dursley's, too, if he were fed that tasteless shit three times a day.

Three knocks on the door, a short pause, followed by two more. Ron paused, forkful of egg half-way to his mouth. Hermione and Ginny stiffened across from him. Mum hesitated at the sink, cheeks usually rosy with love and warmth (and, occasionally, lack of breath from excessive shouting) now the color and consistency of curdled milk, sagging in worry. Even the family clock froze in place, every hand pointed to 'Mortal Peril.' But they were always in Mortal Peril. It had been so since he'd returned home after the end of fourth year.

 _Knock, knock, knock._ Pause. _Knock, knock._

Mum lifted her wooden spoon.

"C'mon, Molly, let me in!" Tonks groaned, and her familiar voice returned breath to them all. Ron's egg sloped from his fork to his lap; Hermione's shoulders slackened, and she carefully closed her book. Ginny grinned cheekily, gloomy attitude gone.

"It's been a long night, and I could do with a pick-me-up," Tonks continued brashly.

Mum pocketed her spoon and wrung her hands in a ragged blue cloth. She tossed it atop a counter, where it began to swipe away at a recent stain, and scuffed forward in caution to gather her wand on the way to the door.

"Coffee, I mean," Tonks clarified, cheerfully voice husky with fatigue. "But I wouldn't say no to something stronger."

"Could I have something stronger, too?" Ron sniggered, plopping the fallen egg into his mouth.

Mum scowled over her shoulder, and Ron shrank back, immediately regretting his words. "Not at my breakfast table," she said.

"What's that I smell? Eggs? Bacon? What, is that chocolate?" There was a snuffling at the door, as though Tonks had assumed a dog's snout and began inspecting the cracks with her nostrils. "Molly, you're killing me."

"How did we first meet?" Mum asked sternly, wand raised. Ron rolled his eyes and resumed his steady gorge of third helpings. As if _Tonks_ could be impersonated.

Tonk's laugh soaked the wood with muffled charm. "It must have been after third year. I fell out your floo, crashed into your dinner table, made myself a plate, and excused myself to Charlie's room without introducing myself. And then spewed stew all over your walls when you nearly tore my ear off dragging me back downstairs. Can I come in, now? They don't feed us at the Ministry."

Ron snorted into his eggs, and nearly inhaled them. Ginny was no better. Hermione frowned a bit, but he couldn't imagine why; Tonks was a fucking riot.

Mum opened the door, revealing Tonk's wide grin and pink nose. She sported a chin-length bob today, electric blue fringe dipping into grey eyes, which crinkled into half-moons of mirth. "'Lo, Molly," she said cheerfully, slopping past Mum as she sniffed appreciatively at the air. "Smells lovely. I wish _my_ Mum could cook half as well as you. I grew up on experimental dishes involving asparagus and jam. But you can't expect much from purebloods raised by house elves. Ooh, ham and eggs! Can I, Molly?"

Tonks' eyes became very round and shiny, impossibly so. It was actually kind of creepy and fucked up. And cute. But Ron would never admit that out loud.

Mum wasn't even deterred. "You're supposed to ask _me_ a question, Tonks."

Rounds eyes shrunk to normal size as she laughed. "Don't need to—the other side would think we're on first name basis, and anyone who calls me _Nymphadora_ 's gonna get a blistering curse right up the—"

"Tonks, I dare you to finish that sentence," Mum said, expression hard.

"Don't do it," Ginny said wisely. Ron nodded in agreement. Only Fred and George were brave enough to take Mum's dares.

"Nasal cavity," Tonks finished, as though it were what she meant to say all along, and hid the plate she'd been piling high with eggs behind her back as if to shield it from Mum's Unforgivable glare. "Fine," she said. "What was Tonks' nickname for Molly Weasley to her friend Charlie?"

Mum's face regained color, and her lips thinned; a look Ron hadn't seen since she first found out Fred and George's aspirations after school.

"The Dictator," she said after a moment's hesitation.

Ginny looked positively gleeful.

"And not another word!" Mum warned, wielding her spoon threateningly.

"I didn't say anything," Ginny said, face blank and full of false innocence. If Ginny was the perfect angel his mum believed, Ron was Viktor Krum. He still had nightmares about the frog spawn she had placed in his bedsheets when he was eight or something; he woke up screaming, believing wholeheartedly he'd been eaten by a spider, then vomited back out. Mum had thought it was Fred and George, who had happily taken credit. But Ron knew better.

Tonks dropped down on the bench next to Ron, jolting him into dropping another forkful of egg. Impervious to his glare, she tucked herself in, cheeks bulging comically from her pixie face.

"Another night shift?" Hermione asked sympathetically.

Tonks nodded. "It's 'orrible an' uselesh," she said, mouth full, then swallowed, sighing pleasurably. Ron pointedly thought of ice cold rivers and empty pumpkin pasty wrappings. "Scrimgeour has us screening everyone at the Ministry—and I mean _everyone._ If I have to follow another middle-aged man to the post office, I'm going to hurl." Tonks grimaced. "Can't tell you much more, I'm afraid. But, I do have something for ya!" She reached into her Auror robes and waved a folded parchment in front of his nose.

"Letter from Harry," she explained, smiling.

Ron shifted in his seat and exchanged a look with Hermione, who had straightened as though in preparation to take notes.

"What does it say?" Hermione asked, reaching for the letter. Tonks gave it up easily, and Hermione perused its contents briefly. "Did you see him? Is he alright?"

"We haven't gotten a reply in weeks," Ron added.

"Really?" Tonks' smile fell slightly. "Well, we get letters every three days, but that's our condition for not stalking him this summer. Sounds a bit bored, the poor kid. I don't think he's too happy he can't leave Privet Drive this summer."

This was news to Ron. "What?"

Mum bustled around the table, plates clanging like fighting swords as she collected them in her arms. Her face became pointed as her disapproval collected at the end of her nose.

Tonks shrugged. "Order business. Sorry," she said, and though her expression was blank, there was something apologetic to the set of her black eyebrows. Mum's disapproval faded, and she returned to the kitchen counter, dumping the plates into the sink.

Ron gaped, outrage floundering helplessly about his lips as his ears warmed. "That's—that's so unfair! Harry's our friend—we have a right to know what's going on with him!"

Tonks' cheerfulness dissolved into something a bit more frightening. It didn't help the woman wore battle robes. "What Harry chooses not to tell you is no business of yours, and anything related to the Order of the Phoenix he knows better than to put in writing. Besides, I'm pretty sure he'll tell you everything on the train."

Tonks' silverware zoomed from the table to join the rest of the dirty dishes.

"They've heard enough, Tonks," Mum said.

Unfazed, Tonks picked at her breakfast with her fingers. "You know it's true, Molly; there's no use denying it. Those three and their schemes." Tonks winked at them. "But I was actually hoping you'd shop for Harry's supplies when you went to Diagon Alley. I would do it, but, knowing me, I'd forget even with the list."

Hermione's eyebrows met in a peak of crestfallen concern. "He can't even come to Diagon Alley with us?"

Sympathy stole Tonks' features, which had drooped like a bloodhound's. "Dumbledore thinks it's for the best."

Ron pushed at his plate, his stomach bubbling with an uncomfortable warmth that shot up his throat. He didn't feel even remotely hungry anymore.

"I know it's not fair to him," Tonks said kindly, as though reading Ron's mind. "But it's better this way. The most important thing is that he's safe. And soon enough, all four of you will be at Hogwarts, this rotten summer behind you."

Everyone fell into the waiting silence, broken only by Tonks' chewing and the wash of water on plates licked clean.

* * *

 _Monday, 22 July 1996_

 _Lupin, he was here._

* * *

 _Sunday, 28 July 1996_

 _Remus,_

 _I don't know if you got my last letter, but it's really important that you come quickly. He left me an early birthday present, and it's so great that I wanted to show you. I understand that you're busy, but if you could make some time for me I'll be over the moon._

 _Wishing all the best,_

 _Harry_

* * *

 _9 August 1996_

 _Remus,_

 _Have you gotten the last letters? They didn't come back so I assume that you did. I still haven't opened that gift—I really want you to be there when I do._

 _Harry_

* * *

 _15 August_

 _Remus,_

 _I really hope you're all right. Our other friends seem too busy, and they won't tell me where you are. But I have something you_ really _need to see._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Harry_

* * *

 _30 August_

 _What the hell, Lupin?_

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **Updated: October 2016**

 **Kundalini: (1)** Snake; coiled one. **(2)** Unconscious, primal energy located at the base of the spine, which lies dormant until activated for the purpose of reaching spiritual enlightenment. **(3)** Awakening.


	4. September 1st, Part I

_And indeed there will be time_

 _To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"_

 _Time to turn back and descend the stair,_

 _With a bald spot in the middle of my hair –_

 _(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")_

 _My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,_

 _My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin –_

 _(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")_

 _Do I dare_

 _Disturb the universe?_

 _In a minute there is time_

 _For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

~ T.S. Eliot, "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," 1915

.

.

 _But I never saw a man who looked_

 _So wistfully at the day._

~Oscar Wilde, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," 1897

.

.

* * *

September 1st, 1996

 _He was here._

Remus stood upon the brushed cement porch of number four Privet Drive, shoulders hunched into a jacket he supposed had never seen better days, having been something he'd traded for a day's work back when he was friendless and hungry and desperate. It did nothing to ward the morning's light downpour, which slipped through hairline fractures in the expanse of a sky blurred with chill. Black tar streets glistened under the misty polish of rain. The day was quiet, a calm broken only by the careful plodding of easy rain around houses identical to the last letterbox. Privet Drive was perhaps the least magical place Remus could think of, and yet he stood shivering on the doorstep, still weak with the horror three words had induced within him in the early hours of the morn.

Because of Dumbledore's surprisingly dubious task, Remus hadn't been in London since the middle of July, and in the United Isles since the fifth of August, returning to Hogwarts disheartened and still limping from his last transformation. Debriefing Dumbledore would have been a less embarrassing affair had a Holier-Than-Thou Snape not been present. There had been little information to collect on his journey abroad, and even littler coin. Clothes that normally fit him fine, though in varying stages of shabbiness, now drooped despondently from his shoulders, wrist cuffs stopped by thumb joints as opposed to comfortably covering the worst of the scars streaking his arms. Hunger had been his constant companion—an irritating, jabbering kid of a thing—and shelter often an inaccessible friend. When he'd finally returned home, he'd been pleasantly surprised to see Harry's sharp hand on the outside of starched Muggle envelopes, but it soon slipped into a nauseating horror as each sequential letter grew exponentially more worrisome, ending with an angry question Remus couldn't help but repeat to himself with tired abandon. What had Harry been _thinking?_ Why hadn't he alerted someone else once it was clear that Remus wasn't responding? Didn't the boy realize that his life was more important than—?

Of course he didn't; Harry had watched Sirius die, partly at the fault of misunderstanding and misinformation. He probably believed that some secrets, such as the prophecy, were worth dying for. And Harry was all too willing to follow Sirius through the veil—

—tendrils of nothing gathering him into Death's embrace, eyes wide and still as his last laugh ghosted across his lips, and he was pulled towards the seductive whispers just beyond as he, too, faded into nothing, and no, no, no, Remus had just gotten him back, had just gotten back a piece of the happiness he'd believed long gone and whatever happened to the _just you and me now, Moony_ And Harry _Yes, and Harry_ and Remus remembered staying up all night listening to the doubts of his best friend as he questioned if Harry even needed him anymore; he wasn't a child, that much was clear even when the boy was thirteen years old and _Moony, why'd they choose me I was always the most reckless and dangerous and damaged of us all it should have been you_ But you would never fear to show the boy your love—

—And Remus pressed his fingers to his eyes, dulling the ache, and everything washed away with an ocean wave of calm, the lingering sting of regret scrubbing open wounds until that faded as well. Harry's distrust wasn't unfounded. The boy witnessed the paranoia of the Order firsthand. He was not blind to shifting eyes and guarded scrolls, was victim of the dark himself when Dumbledore refused to let light's relief slip through his oh-so-careful fingers. Harry correctly assumed that the imposter wasn't a widely traded secret throughout the Order, and impressed Remus by his progress with coded messages. He and Tonks had trained him well.

But Harry's choice not to write to Dumbledore was troubling. Did he no longer trust the Headmaster, after what happened to Sirius? Did he not think Dumbledore wouldn't know about the imposter? Or, perhaps, did the boy believe Dumbledore couldn't be bothered by Harry's concerns?

"You look like somebody died," Moody growled from beside him.

Remus stared. An English breeze brushed through his hair. After a moment, Remus returned his attention to the door, neck stiff and fingers bloodless with cold and pressure. "A comment born of bad taste, Alastor," he said lightly, feeling anything but.

"Don't be a bottomless cauldron, Lupin. You know what I meant." Although Moody's inflection was dismissive, the words were gruff, scraping at a larynx ruined by magic and rage. In the next moment, a scowl sutured over his rare empathy. "What the fuck is taking Potter so long? Doesn't he understand that we have a tight schedule? Because once Jones sets the flare we're leaving; I don't care if the boy is naked."

If James had heard that, he would have insisted. Sirius wouldn't have needed Moody's sardonic irritation to prompt him; he would have thought of the idea all on his own. Not for the first time, Remus was glad Harry had more sense than both his father and his godfather together.

"Don't be so hard on him," Remus said quietly as Moody attempted to ram his fist through the door for a second time. The sound clattered out on the street like dropped plates. Had the weather been fair, Remus would have feared detection; as it was, neighboring houses had their blinds drawn against the gloom, refusing the admittance of summer's leave. But denial was only a temporary bandage to life's harsh strikes. Remus knew this well.

Apparently, so did the Dursleys. Shuffling pricked at the threshold of Remus' hearing, as well as an enraged " _Boy, get the door!"_ that stirred his blood with the strength of a muted moon. Remus tilted his chin up. There was a reason Remus could never take Potter Watch the year before.

 _Coward,_ Sirius whispered in his ear. James whispered a much crueler truth in the other.

The lock shifted in place with a click, and the door opened to reveal the chronic bedhead that was the Potter curse. Remus couldn't help but feel fondness. Harry was turned away from the dreary morning, still facing the geometric hallway, the fine muscles in his jaw working against either emotion or words. His thin chest rose and fell beneath a faded, dark red shirt.

"Potter!" Moody barked, and Harry started violently, dropping the pair of rolled black socks he'd been holding as he whipped around to face the ex-Auror. Green eyes widened behind round glasses, which only added to his expression of surprise. "If I had been a Death Eater, you'd be worm shit! Don't turn your back to the enemy!" And as if he hadn't heard Remus earlier, Moody nearly shunted Harry into the wall as he thumped his way into the house, brown trench coat fluttering about his peg as he inspected the walls, electric blue eye whizzing from underneath the shadowy brim of a particularly sorry-looking bowler hat.

As Moody's declarative limping became more pronounced, Harry's large uncle waddled out the kitchen door, giving them a glimpse of a shining breakfast scene: table laden with foodstuffs and a somewhat wilting bouquet of lilies. Petunia, epitomizing the fifties housewife in a mid-calf dress, was recognizable by her pale-eyed disgust, an expression that brought him nearly twenty years back to Lily and James' wedding. A lump of a boy—the same one that had taken sanctuary on the staircase behind Harry that late July night—sat next to her, undesirably fearful as he took in the scene before the door closed. Dursley guarded the door, buttons practically leaping from his shirt as he shouted his displeasure to the ceiling, which throbbed as if struggling to contain his outrage. Family pictures cowered against the wall. Even the padlocked door to the cupboard shuddered against the staircase.

Moody tilted his hat up with the tip of his gnarled wand, and Dursley staggered back, rage curdling into something mottled and white.

" _Y-you!"_ Dursley managed to make it into a nasty swear word.

"Yes. Me." Moody gave an unsettling smile. "We're here to pick up your beloved nephew. I hope you made good on your promise . . ."

Though pale, Dursley swelled with ire-inflated blood cells. "Now, see here! You lot can't just barge into my house and expect special deferment because of _that boy_ . . ."

"I must be dreaming," Harry said faintly, bewilderment a slap upon his features.

"Unfortunately not," Remus said. The morning's chill had wound itself around Remus' joints, and his fingers in particular were stiff as he uncurled them from within his jacket pockets. After a moment Remus cleared his throat. "May I come inside?"

Harry started again, and hastened to open the door wider. "Yeah, uh, sorry—" The rouge of embarrassment brushed across Harry's cheeks, and his gaze flickered to the floor and back up again. This nervousness toward situations of polite society was neither of James nor Lily, but something that was pure Harry. It was something Remus always found charming, and nostalgic; in this way, Harry reminded Remus of a younger self.

"Please, come in Professor. Er, you don't have to take off your coat or anything, just, uh—" Harry closed the door hurriedly behind Remus, and the cold released its iron grasp on Remus' joints, melting away as warmth seeped through clothes thinned by age. Residual ache in his leg returned. The wolf had mangled it quite horribly a few days back.

Number four Privet Drive was the same as Remus had left it over a month ago: distasteful striped wallpaper peeling away from the boredom of its design, upheld by smug photographs and the occasional print of a flower; the gradient of the staircase leading to a landing concealed by shadows; Vernon Dursley still arguing the indecency of wizards, something that made Remus uncomfortable and Harry sag a little, until Moody drew his wand and thrust the point into one of Dursley's many chins.

"You forget who you're talking to, you bigoted hog," Moody grunted, voice grounded and sharp as his vocal cords eroded away. "One thought—just one—and I could have you skinned and squealing before my feet. If you would close your trough for a few minutes, it would soon be like we'd never come at all."

Dursley didn't speak, didn't move, feet cushioned by house slippers stuck fast to the floor. Had the man been in Hogwarts, Remus could have mistaken him for one of the many strange statues that guarded secret passageways.

"Better." Moody nodded. "Now, be a good love and enjoy the rest of your meal, yeah?"

He gestured to the door with a lazy flick of his wand. Dursley became stone reanimated, all but tripping over himself to escape Moody's sight (an impossible feat, but Dursley might sleep better at night without the knowledge of what a magical glass eye could do), stealing to the kitchen without another word. The door swung shut. They waited. There wasn't even the clink of silverware touching upon plates. Satisfied, Moody turned, wooden leg scraping the floor with a raw scream.

"How was that for metaphors, Lupin?" Moody growled, concealing his wand somewhere undisclosed even to Remus' sharp eyes. "Did it meet your quota, you Grammar Nazi?"

"Nicely done," Remus allowed, ignoring Harry's owl impersonation. "Although you could have done without the threats, I think. Generally, Muggle baiting is frowned upon."

"He had it coming," Moody said dismissively, then zeroed in on Harry, who seemed caught in a dream. "Potter!" the ex-Auror barked. "You look like shit!"

Harry stared, green eyes hard but wide with the astonishment also evident in the slackening cavern of his mouth. Pale fingers like spider legs curled inward. "Thanks, Mad-Eye," he said, irritation tempering the spasm just under Harry's ear. The loss of the formality the boy usually afforded his teachers, both current and former, was telling. He then rounded on Remus, who quickly schooled his expression as he would a boy before Professor McGonagall, almost caught for one thing or another. It was this expression that often relinquished him from the same punishment that awaited Sirius and James. Unlike Professor McGonagall, however, Harry was rather immune to bullshit, especially from those he knew. "Are you going to tell me now I've no chance of making the cover of _Witch Weekly_? Because then I'd have to say I'll be rather disappointed."

"It's good to see you, Harry," Remus said, traces of bullshit erased through the clean and genuine renewal of a smile. But now that Harry faced him, Remus conceded, however reluctantly, to Moody's point: Harry did not look well. He had grown, up to Remus' nose, now, but could be compared to bed sheets: translucent white in the sun and stretched thin when knotted into tools of escape. Restless nights painted shadows under his green eyes, rimming lids in pink. Though the boy had always been pale—a feat that usually made his inky hair all the more a shock—Remus couldn't help, in this instance, comparing him to James (something Remus took care not to do), who'd always returned to Hogwarts sunkissed, smiling, and a little stronger each year.

It had occurred to Remus that Harry could have very well taken after his mother, who under a cold sun burned crispier than Sirius Black's still-to-this-day unspoken attempt to cook, but it didn't explain the way he huddled into himself, the wiry muscle that seemed to run off angle to the defined line of his arm bones, the way he occasionally shook as though withstanding the steady burial of a Scottish winter. And it was almost unbearably hot in number four.

Concern welled within him, but Remus didn't dare clap a hand on the boy's shoulder. Or his forehead. _He_ wasn't the boy's godfather. "Say, Harry, have you caught a virus? It so happens I've Pepper-Up in my pocket—?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Harry snapped. Moody raised what was left of his right eyebrow.

Taken aback, Remus withdrew into himself, pressing everything into the blank slate of his expression. "Russia," he said simply, divulging a partial truth. To explain himself fully would take more time than they had. And, he found, the best way to deal with an angry Harry was not to get angry himself, to remain calm and provide enough information to satiate the boy's rather large thirst for the truth. A shame, really, the boy wasn't similarly driven towards academics.

And it worked better than any charm. Aggression seeped from Harry's shoulders to uncurl his fingers and relax his stance until it was recognizably more Harry and less battle-hardened warrior. "Oh," he said. He looked away.

"Yes," Remus said curtly. "Oh."

Silence was a ticking clock and the creak of old floorboards. Breath gave life to the dull house, filling the picturesque setting with a meaning worth more than photographs, waiting on words that threatened to never come. Harry's mood, which had risen and fallen as the pull of the moon phases, quieted from its lashing out into a docility Remus both appreciated and despised. It meant much to Remus that Harry at least respected him enough to listen, to trust, but such a thing often came at the costly price of spirit and instinct. And Harry had instinct enough to challenge the wolf.

"This is taking too long," Moody growled, thumping unevenly passed a glass table holding up numerous frames containing a large blonde boy posed in happiness. "While you pansies wallow in self-pity and some shit the Dark Lord rallies his forces to stupid numbers, preparing to wipe out Muggles more innocent than these assholes." Half the Cheshire slash splitting his face lifted into a sneer, small eye hard on Remus as the modified one rolled unpleasantly to stare in the back of his head at a contrite Harry. "Potter needs to finish up here, make touching goodbyes, kiss his aunt, see you all at Christmas."

"I _never_ come back for Christmas," Harry mumbled, mouth shifting sideways in disgust.

Moody ignored him. "We have minutes until Jones' signal. I don't want to use magic, but I will if it means you move your ass."

Harry's eyes flashed, agitation lighting an emerald flame that was equally doused in disbelief. Remus wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose; this was getting them nowhere.

"Alastor," Remus said, and his voice was firm. "I'll help Harry. Why don't you guard the front door and look out for potential threats?"

Moody visibly paused, and Remus waited for him to get mean, to become something reserved for strangers. And indeed, Remus could see its beginnings slipping through the fissures of Moody's usually closed expression. As though turned to stone himself, Remus hardened against the inevitable earthquake that was Alastor Moody's rage; the man never responded well to authority, and especially to those who had no claim to such respect. Remus prepared himself to be put back in his place. Not a man, but a beast.

But Remus had miscalculated: Moody's expression completed itself, molding from his usually difficult state of organized chaos into a twitch of approval Remus would have missed if he had been looking the other way.

"Since when do I take orders from civilians?" Moody grumbled. Somehow, Remus had impressed the old wizard. For what, Remus didn't know, nor was he ever likely to; Alastor Moody had always been something of a mystery when it came to motive.

"There's always a first time for everything," Remus said mildly, wondering the same thing himself.

Moody limped heavily past Remus and Harry, gnarled fingers emerging from the shadows of his trench coat to cinch around the brass knob of the front door. His broad back was to them both, but when he looked over his shoulder mischief pulled tough sutures from pockets in his cheeks, one eyebrow raised.

"I have the same philosophy for you, dry well," he said, and with a short cough he yanked the door open, stepped into the sweep of mist and gray, and slammed it behind him. Chill pressed against Remus' elbows and down his legs until it was drowned in the warmth of number four.

Harry looked to Remus expectantly, confusion present in the arch of his eyebrows, but his young friend hardly needed to know Moody's mad theories about the road less traveled. Instead, Remus cleared the discomfort from his throat. "Upstairs?"

Dark eyebrows disappeared into Harry's fringe, but he nodded and led the way to the second floor landing, steps silent upon wood that creaked under Remus' normally light tred. Harry didn't touch the banister as he walked. His shoulder blades were definable underneath the dark red shirt, tense and hunched up to his ears, two parallel lines lifting the fabric away from the scoop of his back. Remus hoped Harry would let Moody's words fade into the shadows, but like Sirius the boy was known to hold onto hurt and hide it away, quick to anger and act impulsively. But there were reasons, the accumulative sort, that Sirius was the way he was. To think that Harry may be the result of a similar history—

"Moody doesn't know?" Harry asked as they reached the landing. A narrow hallway carpeted in pale blue fibers stretched to their left, and dust motes lit by the dreary day floated leisurely in and out of shadows, halted by three doors closed to general observation. Harry, however, led them to the right, past a small bathroom and to a door Remus had once dismissed as storage.

"No," Remus said. Dumbledore had been oddly secretive of late. If he were honest with himself, Remus probably wouldn't have known, either, had he not been present when Dumbledore had received the letter from Bathilda Bagshot.

Harry nodded as Remus answered, opening a door that smelled of fresh paint to a small bedroom that was the perfect depiction of Nymphadora Tonks: as though it had sprawled to its stomach and didn't feel much like standing afterwards. Clothes lay in abject distress on the floor, hanging over the top of a mirror and the open (and rather empty) armoire, on a bed and partially hiding under a navy duvet. A floorboard reached out towards them from under a bed. Harry's trunk and broomstick leaned against the bed, and the small desk, littered with crumpled balls of notebook paper, held up an empty owl cage lined with yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ , if the picture of a long-since impeached Cornelius Fudge shaking his fist was anything to go by.

"He was here a little after you left," Harry said, stepping over a trembling _Monster Book of Monsters_ as he headed toward the opposite corner of the room, "and he put it in the middle of the room, facing the door so I couldn't help but see it . . ."

Remus made to follow Harry, but a glimmer in the corner of his eye made him pause at the threshold, and take a step back. He inhaled sharply. Seven locks glared at him from the doorframe, accusation a chilled line of cold metal meant to imprison, not save. His fingertips touched at its spine, and retracted as if burned. He couldn't stomach its bareness, like a beaten child facing the corner. Childhood memories drifted upwards until his vision fogged with its distance, recalling the room beneath his parents' home that housed a monster, contained by Muggle locks and Pa's dwindling magic and the young denial of his reality. Of a room he had once believed that if ignored he would never become that hated thing. A room that hid dangerous secrets. He looked to Harry, who still spoke, who was very thin and looked very tired and shook with the burden Remus had often witnessed in a young Sirius Black who would board the Hogwarts Express after summer holidays pale and hungry and pissed off. Something fractured within him, and he became numb as though trapped within one of the locks itself. The imposter no longer seemed very important.

"Apparently," Harry was saying, as if nothing had changed, "Aunt Petunia took that nutter _inside_ , had him finish my chores—and I was blamed for his shoddy job, by the way, so I really must thank him for that—" He threw a sheet over his shoulder and dragged something large into the shattering of light tossed through the window pane. Once it was in the middle of the room Harry exhaled and sat back on his heels, jerking his hands away to wipe on his thighs. "He wasn't here when I came back, though."

When Remus didn't say anything, Harry looked up and opened his mouth, but his brow, which had been furrowed with thought, cleared into open concern. "What's wrong?"

Dumbledore promised Remus the boy would be safe. The son of Lily and James Potter would be better off without him. He was well cared for.

Sympathy walked across Harry's expression. "It was my mother's," he whispered, almost to himself.

Harry misunderstood. Locks kept the monster inside. Locks kept everyone else safe. But inside the monster would tear himself up, in pain and alone.

Why hadn't they ever checked?

Harry stood. "Are you alright?"

Remus shook himself. They couldn't do this now. "Yes," he croaked, and cleared his throat. Harry would be fine; he was leaving for Hogwarts now, and he wouldn't be back until next summer. There was plenty of time. Until then . . . "Yes, thank you, Harry."

He then caught the object haloed by the gloom outside: a school trunk. A very familiar trunk engraved with a very familiar name. He moved to crouched before it, tracing the swirling patterns on the trunk with his sight. Lily had carved those herself second year. Had asked Remus for the spell. Had Remus show her how to make flowers, because she was hopeless with still life but brilliant with patterns. Sirius had called him a girl, for both knowing how to draw flowers and being nice enough to show someone how. James had been mad with jealousy for a week and Remus hadn't a clue until Peter made an innocent observation that embarrassed the both of them back to normality.

Remus held everything at bay; he hadn't realized anything had survived the destruction of the Potter home that fateful October, but it made sense that Lily's sister, or Harry, would have priority over her things.

"I haven't opened it," Harry said.

It looked innocent enough, but, then again, so did Remus. "Very smart, Harry," Remus instructed. "The worst of dark magic traps often take forms we know best."

"I didn't even know Aunt Petunia _had_ this."

A stated fact. Some surprise. As if his aunt had presented him with an antique camera rather than kept his mother's personal effects from his knowledge.

Did Harry believe he deserved to be locked up? Did he believe he was a monster?

Remus stood. "We can't do anything here," he said. He didn't know if he was talking about the locks on the door or Lily's old school trunk. He inhaled carefully. Something undefinable and hot crawled up his throat, but he swallowed it back before it had a chance to prick at his sight, stuffing anything resembling emotion into a ramshackle box he had to put back together after the wolf tore it to pieces every month. Soon, it was as if the truth had never been uncovered. He patted his pockets, and something small and hard knocked against his side. "Testing cursed objects is unsafe even in as controlled environment as the Department of Mysteries. To do so now, in a bedroom above Muggles, would not reflect good judgment on our part."

"Right." Harry ruffled the hair at the back of his head. "What do we do?"

Moody's signal—three knocks on the front door, loud and punctual—echoed his impatience below them. Remus lifted his arm, where his watch ticked from underneath his old jacket. Ten o'clock exactly. They had five minutes.

"Send it to Headquarters." Remus withdrew his other hand, fingers peeling back like flower petals to reveal a handsome phoenix figurine. It hummed a tuneless song against his palm.

Harry leaned closer for a better look. "Is that—?"

"A portkey," Remus confirmed, placing it atop the trunk with care. It stood on its own, wings extended outwards and beak upturned as though preparing for flight. Remus tapped the figurine with the tip of his wand, intent pure and clear. Magic tugged almost absently at Remus as the figurine, once blood red under overcast skies, became burnished in gold, siphoning from his very being until both the phoenix and the trunk vanished, imploding into the glow of the portkey. And then it was done. Remus' magic snapped back at a dizzying pace, shifting within him briefly before it settled.

He pocketed his wand. Foreign fear swiveled tantalizingly around his spine and away to sleep dormantly in his veins. Remus did not like this. They were lucky, this time. The Order had strong reason to believe that Voldemort wouldn't target Harry until he'd had time to recover, to plan. Until then, he was busy doing other things. They didn't need a twenty-four hour watch on Privet Drive. A letter every three days would do. Was Snape's information wrong? Were they idiots to trust a man so entangled in Voldemort's strings? Had the trap been less passive, waiting for Harry's move, they would have lost Harry and they wouldn't have known any different until it was too late.

"That's it?" Harry breathed into the sudden hush.

Remus nodded, looked to the door, and lowered his gaze when he remembered the locks. He gestured to the trunk lumbering crookedly against the bed. "You've finished packing?"

"Er—" Harry swept the room with his gaze, green eyes stopping in specific places: the dresser, the open armoire, the desk, the floorboard half-absconded by shadows, the latter of which Harry dove under his bed to correct. Remus looked on bemusedly as Harry's sneakers twitched, and then struggled backwards until he could stand once more, stuffing a still sneak-o-scope into his pocket. He grinned sheepishly up at Remus, as though thinking Remus was not used to witnessing the more awkward aspects of being young. "Yeah, let's go."

Remus couldn't help but smile. "Come on, then," he said, and despite the twinge in his step—a coil of pain pulling tight around and above his left knee—Remus bent to grasp the handle of Harry's trunk, preparing to drag it down the stairs and to the front door; while the portkey was necessary, to do magic where Muggles could potentially see would be more of a headache than it was worth.

Before Remus could stagger upwards, however, Harry had lightened the burden by taking up the other side; wiry muscle drew taut lines under pale skin, but his expression spelled nothing of a struggle. The owl cage was tucked into the other arm, broomstick safely in hand. Remus nodded, stood, and piloted them into the hallway and down the stairs. Shining motes popped up between them. Dreary bands of light highlighted smooth lines of relief on Harry's forehead.

The Dursleys weren't visible when they ambled onto the first floor, something for which Remus was thankful; with what he knew now, keeping civilized was a challenge even without their presence, and they didn't have the time to indulge in his simultaneous urges to either sob or punish. Remus tensed his shoulders, prematurely huddling into his jacket in preparation for the chill that awaited them, and pulled the door towards himself. September's damp palms swiped at Remus' forehead, and he blinked into the overcast sky.

"Finally," Moody growled, his voice grinding into fine powder. "Jones set off the flare four and a half minutes ago." He frowned at the trunk between Remus and Harry. "Hasn't that good for nothing old man taught you anything? Use a spell, for fuck's sake."

Harry, who was calling out an unreciprocated farewell into the house, didn't seem to have heard. Although, should Harry be anything like the Marauders he wouldn't take offense to Moody's less than civil mouth.

"Alastor," Remus scolded. The door shut with a heavy suction. "We're surrounded by Muggles."

"At least make it lighter," Moody shot back, and reached in to grab the trunk from Remus' fingers. The motion was so fast, so unexpected, Harry lost his grip as well, and his end of the trunk crashed to the porch. Books tumbled from inside it. "You have less than thirty seconds until Jones resets the Anti-Apparition wards."

Moody disappeared, the crack of disapparition tumbling out onto the wet street and up the steps of neighboring houses. The curtains of number seven fluttered and a young face peeped out, featureless at this distance, before becoming concealed by the fabric once more.

"There's Anti-Apparition wards around Privet Drive?" Harry sounded astonished as he shifted the owl cage under his armpit.

"The entirety of Little Whinging, actually," Remus said hurriedly, "and I apologize but I'll have to explain later. You've never been Side-Along, have you, Harry?"

The boy shook his head.

"Right. Hold onto my arm firmly. It will be a little uncomfortable."

Remus turned on the spot, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters clear in his memory, and they both twisted into nonexistence, squeezed into a void so slim not even breath nor rain could slip in after them.

* * *

They landed hard, as though Harry had been lifted by the top of his head and dropped from the roof of Big Ben, falling at such a speed and distance his stomach swooped, only to land on his feet. Gravity was a horrible weight that crept up his knees. Dragged his fingers downward. Harry buckled, held up only by a hand at his elbow. Dark spots crowded his vision like tourists trying to get a better look before losing interest, filtering away to reveal Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

At this time the Platform was strangely empty, dotted with a few families huddling into themselves, pulling cloaks and Muggle jackets smug about their figures to battle the sliver of autumn that had prematurely slipped into summer's place. The Hogwarts Express waited, anxiously chuffing black smoke that curled up and faded into the day. Nostalgia teased forth the awe of his first ride to Hogwarts—the bewildering warmth of a large happy crowd too thick to maneuver, the confusing acceptance of his first friend his age, the excitement of buying something of his own to share—and the surrealism of it all lingered with his present nausea as he remembered himself.

"That," he gasped, "was apparition?"

Lupin's hand skittered from Harry's elbow. "It does take some getting used to."

Harry recalled the discomfiting sensation not unlike being squeezed into a very small tube. "No offense, Professor," he said, "but I think I'd prefer the Knight Bus, next time."

Amusement tugged Lupin's features to the left, light brown eyes following in a side glance. "You still call me Professor," he remarked.

"I still think you should have kept the job," Harry returned without pause, setting his owl cage on the ground next to his trunk. Moody was limping around the perimeter, one arm thrown waylaid as it compensated for his heavy limp, pausing every once in a while to scowl up and down at Aurors lining the Platform. They stood straight as Palace Guards, save for a few. Dawlish, the hard-faced Auror who'd almost arrested Dumbledore the year before, paced the Platform as a lion at the edge of his territory. Kingsley stepped onto the train into the conductor's compartment. Harry thought he recognized Tonks amongst their number, but distance made it difficult to determine her identity. It didn't help her hair was black and pin-straight today, pulled behind her head with a band.

"On your five, Lupin. Lucius Malfoy."

Moody's voice crashed over them as he limped closer, drowning Harry's near inquiry to the security of Little Whinging in something far too vindictive to be genuine pleasure, stranding both Harry and Lupin in a tense gulf from which the beginning to a pleasant goodbye could not be recovered. The ex-Auror now stood at Harry's shoulder, glass eye spinning slowly counterclockwise, rolling from left to right before disappearing into the back of his head. For "three-sixty visibility," he'd once told Harry. Harry questioned whether it made the ex-Auror as sick as Harry felt watching it.

Lupin frowned, but turned to look over his shoulder anyway.

"Well, I'll be." His voice was soft, but looked troubled when he turned back to face Harry and Moody. Harry stood on his toes to peer in the same direction, and astonishment sent little shocks along the ridge of his spine.

Just a few yards from them stood Draco and Lucius Malfoy, both of whom with Harry'd had nothing but bad experiences since his entrance into the magical world six years prior. Lucius Malfoy, however, was not the suave, intimidating man Harry had once accused of attempted murder, the Death Eater he had battled in the Department of Mysteries. Velvet robes of silk and dragonhide draped his thinness in concealed hardship. He leaned heavily on a silver, skull-capped cane. Stringy hair that had lost its metallic sheen escaped a loose clasp at the base of his neck, doing nothing to disguise a well-publicized pointed face, shame lingering in the downturned corner of his mouth. He spoke quietly to his son, who was missing the superior patrician tilt of his head known to his posture.

"Wasn't he arrested?" Harry asked. The man should have been in Azkaban.

"Released, on account of falsified evidence. Never mind he was there, in Death Eater robes, mask up his sleeve. ' _He was on our side._ '" The last bit Moody quoted in a high-pitched plead that was more of a growl, then spat on the ground, narrowly missing Harry's trunk. "Scum."

Harry somewhat doubted this sentence; he'd witnessed Malfoy exchange money with the previous Minister for Magic last year. The government probably rolled in the Galleons of the Malfoy family.

Moody cackled—a dry, hacking cough of a sound. "Look a bit scared, don't they?"

"Surrounded by the enemy, bad blood all around . . ." Lupin was grim as he trailed off. "But that's not quite right, is it?"

"I don't give a damn why they're scared." Moody erupted, irritation stitching along the lines of his scars. "I want to know why Lucius fucking Malfoy thought it was a good idea to show his ugly mug about a family venue. Perhaps he wouldn't mind a little chat. Maybe I can take his cane to 'inspect' on account of reasonable suspicion."

"Don't cause an international incident, Alastor," Lupin said mildly as the ex-Auror stalked towards the Malfoys, both of whom now looked a little panicked.

"Up yours, dry well."

Harry couldn't take it any longer: "Why does he keep calling you that?"

"Alastor thinks he's being funny," Lupin said quickly, dismissing the topic with a shift of his eyes. "But that doesn't matter." He focused intently on Harry's face, determination highlighting gaunt cheeks and pinching sharp corners of his jaw.

"You need to be _careful_ this year," Lupin continued. "You need keep vigilant, but you also need to keep your nose clean. I know—" (here, Lupin held up a hand to halt whatever Harry's defense may have been) "I know," he said, more tiredly, "that it's not always easy—you forget who I went to school with—but you need to try. Voldemort is _back_. Times are _dangerous._ It might not seem that way while at Hogwarts, but this is the truth of the matter." The intensity of his gaze lessened, and he looked briefly away. Dismal warning creased Lupin's mouth. "I don't know this year's Defense professor, and that worries me. Remember those who've held the position before: none were what they seemed to be."

Harry stared. "Are you saying that Death Eaters have infiltrated Hogwarts?"

Lupin's face was very blank, eyes unreadable.

"I'm saying that anything is possible," he said after a long moment.

Harry licked his lips. His grip tightened around his _Firebolt_ , but his palms were sweaty. The clock above them, intricate iron fleurs rough with soot and erosion, ticked towards the half hour. Black smoke continued to twist into the air, puffing continuously through the train's crooked chimney. A few more students appeared through the wall connected to King's Cross, heading straight for the cars.

"Who _is_ the professor this year, anyway?" Harry wondered.

"A Thierry Dupont." Lupin watched him closely. "Does he sound familiar to you?"

Harry shook his head.

"I didn't think so." Lupin let out a small breath. "Dumbledore says he's from out of country, but I also wasn't a werewolf when you met me."

The man gave a secret smile, and Harry laughed.

At this point, Moody was stumbling back towards them, still caneless, patchwork face set in stone. "Something's got Malfoy spooked, and it's not me," he growled, voice rumbling below the steady rise of conversation on the Platform.

"You're not thinking a raid, are you?" Despite the blank calculation that was normally Lupin's expression, worry clawed his voice hoarse.

"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Moody said, eye spinning more quickly. "And it has to be before the train leaves or Malfoy wouldn't be putting his kid on it."

Harry stared at Moody, eyebrow raised, until a platinum sheen bright enough to blind him caught the corner of Harry's attention. Behind Moody, Lucius Malfoy was helping his son board the humming Hogwarts Express, his wand directing a sleek, black trunk with silver clasps through the door of a car.

"I saw Crabbe and Goyle earlier, and they didn't look frightened in the least," Lupin said.

Moody snorted. "Crabbe and Goyle don't give two shits for their sons."

"Do you think Voldemort would dare, with all these Aurors at the station?"

"What would be more public than a station full of children?" Moody countered. "And to double the fun, it would be a direct hit to Dumbledore, who goes soft in the face whenever one of those defenseless screeches blows a snot bubble."

Bile splashed upwards from Harry's stomach to burn his throat with sudden fear. "What should we do?"

"Stay close to us," Lupin said, "and do exactly as we say."

"Wand out, Laddie." Moody's face now resembled a great helm more than patchwork quilt; blank, cold, hiding calculation and fury with just enough holes for seeing and breathing.

Harry hadn't needed to be told. Feeling shuttered within him, and for a moment he could only detect hints of base needs: September harvesting his warmth by sprinkling dots of rain upon exposed and numb skin, sirens ringing loud enough inside him to become a hum of anticipation, breathing heavy and slow to counter the frantic beating of his nervous heart.

Both fists clenched, tension forcing blood upwards, leaving his fingers numb to the creaking ache of abused joints. He stood on an obtuse angle to Lupin, vision flitting from man to woman to child and back again, searching, fearing, waiting. More families clotted the Platform now, each clustered tight around their own, separate from others. His glasses slipped down his nose. Gooseflesh paced the length of his bare arms as the morning mist slinked through his sleeves, scratching at his abdomen and back. Yet he felt quite warm, quite unbothered by his physical needs, as he searched the slowly growing crowd for unwelcome faces. He could only see one: Lucius Malfoy, glancing behind him as though expecting to be followed, fleeing through the barrier to King's Cross Station.

"There isn't any positioning, Alastor," Lupin said quietly, eyes saccadic upon the scene.

"Nothing across the barrier. No free wands. No familiar faces in the crowd . . ." Moody's low grumble trailed off, and he straightened. "Just paranoia, then."

Though Lupin relaxed as well, Harry wasn't convinced. "Wouldn't it happen closer to eleven?" Harry asked, heart in his throat.

"And risk no student casualties as the train chugged away?" Moody snorted. His wand vanished from his hand. "The Dark Lord wouldn't be so careless to attack a nearly empty station."

Harry released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"That's good news." Lupin took the words from Harry's smile. "My leg's not up for dueling just yet."

"What's wrong with your leg?" Harry asked.

Lupin surveyed the Platform with a careful eye. "Wolfsbane's hard to come by, especially with the new anti-werewolf legislation our mutual friend Dolores Umbridge has managed to pass."

Astonishment jerked Harry's jaw down. "That toad still works at the Ministry?"

The description tore a cough from Lupin's throat, but he settled it as Moody said, "Scrimgeour's been firing Ministry workers left and right for even something as small and stupid as the past use of the toe-nail growing hex. Unfortunately, Umbridge has a record more blank than Gilderoy Lockhart's brain, and they're understaffed." Unexpectedly, a smirk pulled his scars into a Gein-esque portrait. "He tried to rehire me, but until a capable Minister comes around, I'll stay in retirement."

Though Moody could be unsettling at times, Harry always thought the man had good judgment.

"Now _this_ is interesting," Moody continued.

Harry, who had almost expressed his hatred for Dolores Umbridge more in depth, exchanged the formation of his vowels so he could ask: "What is?"

"You've got a twin," the ex-Auror stated. "Or a really devoted fan."

The change in Lupin was instantaneous: he stilled completely, his almost-smile thinning as good humor faded from his eyes. His jaw, sharpened by hunger, worked slightly, as though tasting something too sour for expression. It took Harry a moment to realize Lupin was _angry_.

"He's here? _Now?_ " Harry said. There was a swooping sensation in Harry's stomach he usually associated with steep dives on his Firebolt.

Lupin, attention unwavering from Moody, gripped Harry's shoulder tightly. "Where?"

Moody had sobered in the face of their collective anxiety. "Black hooded cloak," he said quickly. The pupil of his glass eye shrunk, fixed on a point between Harry and Lupin. "He was watching us, near the Floo escape. I caught his eye, and now he's moving toward the barrier, so he knows who we are. Lupin, he's armed with a wand and a knife."

Lupin nodded.

"Seven-thirty, Lupin."

"Yes, I see him." His voice was skull-like, monotonous and dull with a grim sense of duty as he watched a cloaked figure blow through the crowd as a leaf in the wind.

"Professor—"

"Harry, get on the train." Lupin gave him a little push, releasing his shoulder and withdrawing his wand.

"What's going on? Why is he here?"

"Do as I say!"

Harry wasn't going to let the man fight the imposter alone. Harry took out his wand as well, face mirroring Lupin's grit, but was stopped by a gnarled hand, warm and rough, circling his bicep.

"I've got the lad," Moody growled. "Get that son of a bitch."

It was all Lupin needed. He quickly paced through the crowd as though parting show curtains, and soon his patched jacket was masked by families giving their final farewells. The cloaked figure turned his head, and, noticing he was being pursued, shot off at a run towards the barrier to King's Cross, shouldering his way through a gaggle of seventh year Hufflepuffs Harry knew only by appearance, parting the invisible line between two redheads, and knocking over a toddling little girl who couldn't have been more than five. Lupin matched his pace instantly, and with more consideration to bystanders. The cloaked figure vanished through the barrier, and Lupin's voice erupted over the hum of conversation: "GET THAT MAN!"

Frustration leaked through Harry's pores. "We can't just leave him be!" he said fiercely, attempting to yank his arm back. Moody's grip might as well have been enhanced with a Permanent Sticking Charm.

"Lupin's a big boy; he can handle himself," Moody snarled. "You, on the other hand, have got a train to catch."

Harry glared at the hairy knuckles coiled around his arm. "Let me go."

"Sure. On the train to Hoggy-Warty Hogwarts." Moody's grip became bruising, and Harry gasped as the ex-Auror forced him to turn. He flicked his wand upwards and Harry's school trunk, owl cage now atop, hefted effortlessly into the air behind them.

"He's going to get himself killed!" Harry struggled to turn back to the barrier, but Moody jerked him closer with a mature strength Harry knew he could never top.

"You've a lot of confidence in the man who's taught you anything useful in the defense against the Dark Arts. A man you still call professor—an acknowledgement of his superior skill, as I understand it." The words, like shoes on gravel, skidded over Harry's ear with an unbearable warmth that crumbled against Harry's damp neck. Harry squirmed, leaning away from the invading pressure of Moody's angry presence, but all it did was further expose his neck. "I don't know what the deal is with the duplicate, Potter, but _we're_ supposed to be protecting _you_. Not the other way around."

"You can't even walk," Harry retorted. His arm hurt. "Let go of me."

"I might not be able to follow you on foot, but a curse will travel faster than you can run," Moody said, and drew him roughly to the side. People were watching them now; side-glances his way from students he didn't know well, from the curious and the frightened, from those with wide eyes or devious smiles. Someone snickered to Harry's right.

His anger withered into embarrassment, which he battled to keep from warming his cheeks.

"I'm not about to run off," Harry said.

Moody raised his uneven eyebrows. "And you expect me to believe that, given compelling evidence that tells me otherwise?"

Harry knew the man was referencing the Department of Mysteries, and Harry hated him for it.

"I'm going to tell you what I used to say to all my rookies back in the day," Moody said as they reached the back of Hogwarts Express. Painted black and streaked with red, the train idled, huffing impatiently as students boarded a few cars ahead.

"Don't rip your charge's arm off?"

"Funny." Moody's eye spun slowly. "Not every fight is your fight, Potter." He nodded at the open gap of the train. "Now, up you get. Run off to your friends. Learn shit. Eat Horace Slughorn's weight in chocolate frogs because you're a fucking scarecrow."

Harry blinked. "Who's Horace Slughorn?"

A Cheshire smile tore through deep ridges in the ex-Auror's face, but it was hardly reassuring. Harry's gaze shifted to focus elsewhere, and Moody blurred to the periphery as familiar faces in the crowd sharpened. Plaited red hair a rope down her back, Susan Bones lifted to her toes as she hugged her severe-faced aunt. A surprisingly contrite Daphne Greengrass—reportedly nasty, though they've never spoken—pressed through the barrier, her dark-haired sister following right after. Anxiety kneaded Harry's shoulder into knots. What if Lupin had needed help? There was only so much one man was able to accomplish on his own. Would the Order find Lupin bleeding in an alley in Muggle London? Cursed like Boderick Bode and doomed to a bedridden life in St. Mungo's? Would he even be found at all?

Moody tapped the crater disfiguring his nose. "You're not leaving this train until you get to Hogwarts, Laddie," he said. "We'll be watching."

Irritation spilled through his nostrils. Moody smirked. The female Auror waved to him from her position on the perimeter, and Harry knew she was Tonks at once. Kingsley must still be on the train. He had nearly forgotten there were other Order members at the station. And Aurors not working for the Order would no doubt stop him as well, acting on the word of the Ministry: protect the 'Chosen One.'

Dejected, Harry waved back at Tonks before slumping to lug up his trunk, doing his best to retain his grip on his _Firebolt_. Once boarded, elevated from the tracks, Harry was comforted despite himself by the purring of the train beneath his feet.

"Here you are, Laddie," Moody said as he handed over the empty owl cage.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled.

Moody's slash of a smile turned wry. "Most kids your age are happy to let adults handle everything."

The barrier was still. There was no sign of Lupin.

"But you're not most kids, are you?"

Harry had nothing to say to that.


	5. September 1st, Part II

Chapter 5

"GET THAT MAN!"

The words ripped from behind the wall of Remus' conscience, which had at this point been crumbling with frustration and fatigue; that sick bastard was going to get away because Remus was too ill, too slow, and, dare he say it, too old. Shards of pain rendered his leg stiff and incomprehensible to urgency, and the cloaked figure phased through the barrier as though a fading memory. Not even seconds later did Remus follow, wand outstretched and a spell swarming behind clenched teeth.

A man clad in crispness and haste swept by, nearly knocking Remus' wand from his fingers, leaping swiftly onto a train's retreating step. Modern steel curved perfectly around cars more reminiscent of barrels than carriages of old, echoing high archways above him. Indecipherable tones clambered across the tracks. As a uniformed officer rushed through the crowd after the moving train, Remus lowered his wand. King's Cross Station. Muggle London. Adrenaline tapped insistently at his wrists, his chest, his temple. His legs tingled with the predatory instinct to stalk, to run, but he kept still. This time, he had a greater need for stealth.

"Do you see him?"

The voice had startled him, authoritative over meaningless murmurs of herded travelers, but he'd stopped outwardly reacting to such small stimuli since the age of twelve, numbed by the exponentially more ridiculous antics of his late school friends. He hadn't expected anyone to respond to his plea, and yet, someone silhouetted in his periphery.

"There's too many," Remus muttered. People were shadows in the daylight filtering through the glass ceiling.

"What does he look like?"

It was a young man: streaked with confidence and independence, something only present in those believing wholeheartedly in their invincibility, in their abilities, their wit. Sirius had sounded like this before Azkaban; James, before his death. The young man at his side couldn't have been anything but an Auror.

And yet, despite the similarities to his late best friends, Remus hesitated. He could hardly tell a complete stranger—one who worked for the Ministry, no less—their current nemesis looked like Harry Potter.

"He's wearing a cloak," Remus offered instead as he pushed into a brisk walk. It was an obvious answer, but to many wizards raised ignorant of the Muggle world, such an observation would have been commonplace enough to forget. His eyes narrowed as he mapped the most direct path, quickly calculating movement patterns of the crowd. From there, he would slip into vacated places.

A presence clung near his shoulder, and Remus hid his surprise behind determination. At least half of those on the Platform would have recognized him for what he was, and if they didn't know his face, they would know his name. Certainly a Ministry employee wouldn't want to aid a class five dangerous creature? Kingsley and Tonks could not risk breaking cover, no matter how much they wanted to, nor how much he needed it. As for Moody, his warped peg did not allow for much running. Remus had not expected any response to his plea. And yet, the young Auror dogged him half a step behind.

"He could've taken it off," the Auror suggested.

The thought had already occurred to Remus, but he know he would have found the man already had that been the case.

The crowd thinned, Muggles young and old tucking deeper into their coverings as the light breeze teased here and there, attempting to shove chilly fingers down coat collars. Remus' sharp ears drew apart waves of conversation, but there was nothing of importance, nothing linking to the imposter. The platform stretched endlessly before them, light crossing through shadows on the concrete to dimly imitate the glass ceiling above. Just as Remus was about to give up his search and return to say a proper goodbye, the Auror darted forth with an unintelligible shout and dropped down to the tracks as a condor to a lower branch, arms spread wide as though to catch the air. The Auror cut a nimble figure as he toed between live rails, battle robes feathering his shoulders and the back of his legs as he ran. Merely moments later the Auror heaved himself onto the opposite platform, rolled to a stand, and dashed the pattern of civilian movement to unpredictable pieces.

Remus' leg twinged. He wasn't exactly in his prime anymore, nor was he reaping the benefits of male maturity. Still, all misgivings about his physical limitations were forgotten while witnessing the Auror giving chase, following as the cloaked imposter vaulted over a fallen trolley on the other side. Remus stumbled onto the tracks, hissing at his dissenting leg. They had something of an audience now: noses pressed to quickly fogging windows, well-wishers re-christening him with creative slights to his intelligence, angered shouts of Muggle authority figures quite unwilling to follow in his path—and, in spite of all this, Remus could only hope that the Auror had better sense than to draw his wand under such attentive eyes.

As Remus pulled himself up to the next platform (using the built in ladder, unlike his extremely athletic aide), the Auror fell hard just inches from the imposter's feet. The Auror rolled to his back and sat up, yanking feverishly at his robes, and as though by magic the outside door opened, allowing the imposter to escape. Remus growled. Fire lined the muscle in his legs, licking his wound until he could no longer feel it. Quickly he leveled with the Auror and passed, leaving the other man cursing loudly—somehow, the hem of his robes had roped around his ankles, constricting tighter with every attempt to free it. Indecision tore at Remus' conscience for a breath, but his aching body had made the decision before he'd finished thinking the logic through. Nonetheless, the door was a meager five steps away when it swung shut unnaturally fast.

The funny thing about wizards, Remus had always thought, was their inability to think logically. For example, most wizards would be stopped by a single obstacle if magic could not be used, such as unlocking or blasting clean through. In a way, wizards raised to abhor of the majority of the world—the Muggle world—were limited by the laws of magic.

Blasting through the door, Remus acknowledged, would be his fastest move. It was also the dumbest, given his current surroundings. It was the move expected of him.

Remus excelled in breaking expectations.

As Muggle London sprawled through the shine of mid-morning, the imposter glanced over his shoulder, glasses glinting under a dark hood. Remus simply stepped through another door. He expected the curse thrown at him, and he blocked it with ease. Surprise, however, slowed him at the top of the declining steps. Surely a dark magic practitioner could have thought of something more vicious than a tripping jinx; the imposter had thrown much harsher magic in the past.

Remus then remembered where he was. Wind pulled his faded jacket in opposite directions. Everything within him screamed to catch the man who'd been mocking both he and Harry since summer's start. To follow the imposter now, after having used magic in a very public area within sight of a Ministry employee, would ensure his guilt, and they would have grounds to arrest him without allowing him to explain. It didn't matter than none had seen him—a feat of pure luck. It didn't matter his actions were purely defensive. Werewolf laws had become twisted, ghosting behind basic human rights and biting hard into those for magical creatures, until they, in the eyes of the law, had become snarling beasts that needed to be put down—or, at least, put in their place—in the thirty-something years since Dolores Umbridge had become a name in politics. In the near twenty since Fenrir Greyback had become famed for his savagery. In colloquial terms, Remus Lupin was fucked. It had only been through a loophole he'd been able to (lawfully) keep his wand.

So Remus let him go. The imposter rounded into an alley, and there was a crack like a backfiring car. Muggles ducked momentarily. Tires sang shrilly on narrow streets.

"Shit," the Auror said, jogging to Remus' side. The young man breathed heavily, his robes torn horribly at the hem, which curled in toward exposed and raw ankles. "Gone, then. I almost got him on foot—you know, the Muggle way—but he got me. I didn't think he would curse me out in the open like that." He shook his head. "Rookie move."

Remus' throat cracked, and his words filtered through the fissures. "Constant Vigilance."

The Auror's mouth quirked. "A Moody survivor, then?"

"Not me." Remus cleared his throat. "A friend."

"Really?" The Auror's dark brows peaked in disbelief. "You're quick. I'd thought you were a retired Hit Wizard or something; you've got incredible reflexes."

So he _had_ seen it. Remus pocketed his wand, attempted to release the hostility in his stance. In this moment mind held no water over matter; instinct resisted in his shoulders and knees, buffered by buzzing remnants of the chase.

"Auror Marcus Reddy." The Auror held out his hand. Remus hesitated slightly before taking it.

"Remus Lupin."

"Ah." Reddy made the sound Remus feared upon detection, but before he could fret and lock away the terrified little boy within him, Reddy's voice took a strangely light inflection. "That explains why the Ministry hasn't snatched you up already."

"They might still." Remus had yet to repair his filter.

Unexpectedly, Reddy threw back his head, bellowing infectiously. Good humor cracked through Remus' quiet horror, and he couldn't help but allow a sheepish hand to ruffle the hair at the back of his head. Something of Remus' unease must have been present, nevertheless, for Reddy added, "Don't worry, Lupin. I'm not about to report you for a little _protego._ "

Relief stretched Remus' mouth unwillingly.

"Who was that guy, anyway?" Reddy asked as they re-entered King's Cross Station. Gears shrieked into motion as the nearest train woke. Suited men read today's _Telegraph_ on benches as worry-creased parents grasped tightly the hands of small children. Previously disseminated patterns restored to a new tune, responding to new arrivals. Fallen bags had been reclaimed. The tracks were clear. Policemen hardly scanned their features. It was as though they'd been forgotten.

"I don't know," Remus said truthfully. "But he was a threat to Harry Potter."

Recognition blotted dark eyes with shining spots. "So you're not wasted, then." Approval colored his tone grey. "Potter's guard, are you?"

Was that what people thought of him whenever he took Harry to school? That he was his guard? It made sense, in a way; not many would bother Harry with him around.

"No," he said at last, but uncertain himself. Harry didn't have a specified guard, though the Order had taken it upon themselves to escort Harry to and from school. Dumbledore had fought the Ministry for Harry's privacy, but the Aurors at the Station told Remus how much they thought of Dumbledore's word.

Reddy shrugged. "Dora said you were close."

 _Dora? Did he mean Tonks?_

Remus stared at the young man. They were about the same height, and though Reddy was thin, he was much healthier than Remus; arms corded, angular jaw, each muscle in his neck a strong cable keeping a strong posture. Reddy stood like a soldier, feet shoulder-width apart, and his arms alternated from behind his back to a controlled swing as he walked. Nothing could be gleaned from his face, which, although open, did not yield to thought or emotion.

"Did she, now?" Remus said mildly, but concern welded the words to his teeth. Was he an ally?

"She says good things about you all the time," Reddy continued. "And I've actually been rather curious; I've never met a werewolf before."

Such words would have inspired ire in Lily Potter, who had championed equality amongst people even before she knew Remus' darkest secret. But Remus knew Reddy meant no harm. "In all honesty, I'm afraid I'm rather boring," Remus said wryly, side-stepping to avoid a rather harassed looking mother. "I read books. I keep a garden. I organize my socks by color."

"Shame." Reddy's grin was comically wide.

Before Remus could change the topic, to ask how long he'd known Tonks, a vaguely familiar adolescent called his name:

"Professor Lupin! Ahoy, Professor Lupin!"

 _Ahoy?_ Sirius' humoring disbelief drifted in Remus' inner ear as he surveyed King's Cross, curious about the source and berating himself for the small amount of joy that teased at his liver whenever bestowed with the title. A boy of about fifteen trotted towards them, layers of coats peeling off his shoulder with every bounce, and another quite a bit smaller puttering in his wake. Dark blonde locks rebelled from what was once a careful combing, pricking at clear eyes that betrayed happiness. Both boys dragged trunks, which rolled heavily upon the concrete.

A line of sun illuminated the elder's smooth face, and sparked a forgotten memory. "Colin Creevey," Remus said in greeting, pleasantly surprised. Colin had grown much since he'd last seen him.

Colin was murmuring excitedly to what couldn't have been anything but his brother: ". . . that's my Defense professor before you came, Dennis. He's a real live _werewolf_ . . ."

Ah, the innocent ignorance of Muggleborns. It was relieving, in a way, but it was also kind of sad.

Reddy cleared his throat. "Aren't you boys running a little late? It's five till."

Stress blotted the excitement from Colin's eyes. At the moment, they stood between platforms one and two. "We won't make it; the walk's too far—"

"Nonsense." Authority clipped Reddy's tone. "You'll make the train with time to spare. I'll escort you myself." He moved to take Dennis' trunk, which probably weighed more than the small boy, but Remus stopped him with an arm weighted with racing thoughts.

"I'll do it," Remus said. When Reddy raised a thick eyebrow, he clarified, "You can trace our quarry's path, so you have a reason for leaving the Platform; I can't imagine Scrimgeour will be thrilled by your independence. Besides, it will give me time to catch up with my former student."

Skepticism washed away from Reddy's visage, leaving behind the stoic acceptance that was following orders. "Right. Catch you on the other side, Lupin." And with that, he was gone.

Once Reddy was out of range, Remus subtly cast silencing charm and turned to the boys, gears oiled with brilliance and face ticking with gravity. "I'm afraid I must ask something very important of you. It shouldn't be dangerous, and you're perfectly free to refuse, but it will be an enormous help to Harry Potter."

Surely rousing such happiness in children wasn't manipulation. At least, that's what Remus told himself.

* * *

The train shuddered beneath Harry, and the tremors of something much larger than he resonated through the filthy soles of his trainers. Having been nearly completely isolated from the magical world since the abrupt end to his fifth year, it was difficult for Harry to believe he was headed to Hogwarts at all. It was almost like waking up from a very long, banal dream. He was finally going home.

And yet, he'd wanted nothing more than to follow Lupin back into the Muggle world, back into that hated banality. There would be no more deaths on his behalf. But Moody stood in his path, trunk arms crossed and premonition stitched from ear to ear, prepared for Harry's predictability. That Cheshire smile had set Harry's teeth on edge, and the knowledge that he could do nothing seethed within him, pushing his sanity until it staggered along the crumbling cliff of reason. He hated being treated like a child. He hated how others made decisions for him. He would be of age next year, and until then . . .

He'd permitted the train's steel to collect him into the sudden hush of the nearest car and chose a compartment at random. Thankfully, it was empty. He knew Moody's magical eye watched his every move, and he pointedly ignored it. Settled his belongings above faded red upholstery. Rubbed his arms. Ran a still shaking hand through his hair. Once sitting Harry calmed considerably, and his previous ire mutated into an odd concoction of mulishness and nerves. All summer he'd thought of his friends, about when he could leave Privet Drive end escape to the Burrow, but now that he was here, all he really wanted was to be alone.

The window's dampness had numbed Harry's nose as he watched the barrier. Many passed through that brick wall as time ticked closer to eleven, cluttering the Platform. It had been an enlightening experience as he watched the Weasleys arrive, Hermione in tow, as an outsider at five till: Mrs. Weasley's cheeks dappled puce as she dragged a severely gangly Ron by the elbow; Hermione giggling into her hand behind them, then turning to whisper conspiringly to Ron's younger sister, Ginny; and lastly, an overly tired Mr. Weasley behind them, hunched meekly as though desiring to escape his wife's notice, but his brown eyes were oddly alert, lighting upon each Auror, each train carriage, each possible entrance. For a moment, Harry almost expected to see the jubilant duo that was the Weasley twins, but then he remembered they were two years his senior, and would not be returning to Hogwarts this year.

At the sight of his two best friends his heart shuddered against his ribcage, and his nerves left him unpleasantly lightheaded. He pulled away from the window.

"Mum—bloody hell, let go." Ron's voice carried to the train as they got closer.

"If I _ever_ hear you talk like that again—"

"I was just giving her a compliment. Is it my fault she had a nice pair of— _ow!_ "

"Do I have a troll for a son? You have a _sister_ , for Merlin's sake. Charlie's never said a thing like that in his life!"

"Yeah, well, Charlie wouldn't know a girl if one danced naked in front of— _Mum, that hurts!"_

"You do know the shaming and objectification of women was a precursor to Rome's downfall," Hermione commented airily. She sounded as though she was enjoying herself very much.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Ron said.

"I'm just saying that today's societies have a thing or two to learn from history," Hermione said. Their voices thinned with distance now; headed toward the middle of the train. "You can think about it on our way to the Prefect's compartment. Do you think we have time to find Harry before . . . ?"

When Harry could no longer hear them, he returned to the window. The Creevey brothers made a mad dash to the train, laughing wildly through the race as their trunks floated behind them. Moody still watched him, but there was something off in his expression now. Before Harry could identify it, the train sighed, shifted back, and rolled into motion. Lupin hadn't returned.

It was hours later, and Harry had been surprisingly unbothered as he rested his temple against the cold window pane, watching forests and fields blue under the influence of speed and self-reflection. Burdened with chores and the constant plague that was guessing at Voldemort's next move, the strange business that was the imposter had taken a plunge on the list of Harry's worries. And, perhaps, Harry hadn't really wanted to know. The thought of someone using his face as protection (flimsy as that protection may be—Lupid did have a point there) made Harry more nauseous than the thought of Umbridge still working at the Ministry of Magic. Who was he? What did he want with Harry? And, more importantly, what did he think he would accomplish wearing a Harry Potter suit around Godric's Hollow and the like?

And Lupin . . . Harry had never seen the man more angry. Had Lupin chased the imposter to Russia? (What was he doing in Russia?) Had he done something to Lupin in the past? When Lupin and Moody arrived on the doorstep on number four earlier that morning, Lupin had been the thinnest he'd ever seen him, but Harry had been so irritated with him, so angry at Uncle Vernon, he'd shunted it to the side. Was this was grief does to a man? Or was it something more?

Knowing Harry's luck, the imposter was just fucking with the both of them.

The train rumbled more fiercely, displacing Harry's head momentarily before knocking it into the glass. The resulting headache sliced clean through his thoughts, and he groaned underneath Hermione's muffled voice through frosted glass: ". . . and I honestly don't know why you're so surprised, Ronald. He's always been—oh, he's in here, Ronald . . ."

The compartment door rolled open until the handle caught soundly on the wall, and Harry's two best friends stumbled across the threshold, violating the dry silence he'd been enjoying since the beginning of the journey. Hermione was already in her school things, Gryffindor scarf draped across her shoulders slipping to her elbow as she struggled to lift her trunk onto the storage rack. Harry stood to help, and together they managed the task. He should have expected Hermione's enthusiastic hello as she attacked his sore ribs, her arms locking at the back of his neck, chin resting on his shoulder. Predictably, he'd a mouthful of very curly hair. Ron chuckled as he closed the compartment door, Adam's apple wavering as though the laugh pressed sharply at his throat. Summer had brushed a few layers of freckles over his cheeks and nose.

Hermione pulled back. Her smile faltered briefly before returning, doctored with a small amount of forced cheer. "How was your summer, Harry?" she asked, choosing a seat across from Harry. Her tone bordered on sympathetic.

"Compared to last year? Kind of boring, actually," Harry said. "Snape's essay was a terror, so thanks for the notes. You're a lifesaver."

"I thought it was rather fun," Hermione said, eyebrows peaked slightly in defense. Only Hermione would find tedious research fun.

Ron threw himself on the bench next to Harry, and his long limbs sprawled awkwardly, like a sapling timbered before its time. "Snape, fun? That's a laugh." He rubbed at his long nose, sniffled once, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm glad I'll never have to see that great ugly git again. You two have fun with that bastard."

Harry paused, unsure he heard his friend correctly. "You're not taking Potions this year?"

Fiery hair swept into blue eyes, flame upon deafening waters. "Only takes Outstanding students, doesn't he? Good job on that mark, mate, by the way."

Harry ignored the compliment. "What about being an Auror?"

"I'll have to think of something else, then, won't I?" Ron shrugged. "It wasn't that important to me, and I don't envy you. That class is going to be hard, and I doubt more than ten people got in."

Hermione, who had busied herself with the contents of her trunk, turned and frowned at him. "The O.W.L. exam wasn't terribly difficult—"

Ron snorted. "Speak for yourself."

"—and I think you're underestimating the abilities of our class," she finished primly, book in hand as she settled the brass clasps of her trunk.

"I think you're _over_ estimating Snape's teaching," Ron returned. "Mark my words: that class will be _tiny._ "

Sensing a fight, Harry interjected, "How was Diagon Alley? Fred and George set up shop there, right?"

"It's bloody amazing," Ron exclaimed, straightening instantly. "While Mum and Bill went to get your stuff, we got to check out the store. And it's enormous—" And Ron, with knowledgeable interjections from Hermione, illustrated a colorful, multi-level shop packed to the brim with jokes and gags, trick candies, and a dubious-sounding 'Wonder-Witch' product line of daydream charms and love potions, and more customers than any other store in Diagon Alley. Harry was sorry to hear that the wizarding shopping center of his youth was no more, scared into a cowering, submissive version of itself. Shops boarded up, kiosks gone from the streets, and an altogether feeling of gloom. Ollivander's had closed, as had a few other well-known businesses, but when Harry asked what had happened, Ron grew boorish and said, "They know, but they won't tell us anything."

"Actually, Harry," Hermione started, hesitant as she marked a place in her book, "we were hoping that _you_ knew something."

A moment passed. His heart thudded loudly, once, in his ears. He'd known they would ask, but he'd hoped it could have waited a little longer. At least, until he understood all the facts himself. Harry had always known, somewhere deep inside him, that he would be the one to end it all, or die trying. That he would have to defeat Voldemort so that he could live. So that others could live. But the knowledge of the prophecy itself was a dangerous thing to carry, and he wouldn't place that upon his friends.

"Harry?"

He didn't know what to say. The prophecy. The imposter. They couldn't know either of those things. Not while the danger was so very real. Heat crawled up his throat, and he swallowed against it. All he could taste was bile.

"You think the Order talks to me?" he said, and it wasn't a complete lie.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, something grim pulling similarly at their features.

"The _Prophet's_ been calling you 'The Chosen One,'" Ron prompted, straightening from his slouch.

"Bloody hypocrites, aren't they?" Harry spat. He didn't have to fake his ire at the wizarding press; it didn't matter how accurate they were. "They're just trying to make themselves look good after dragging my name through the mud all of last year."

"You have to know _something_ ," Ron said, frustrated.

"We saw Professor Lupin over the break," Hermione said, plucking absently at the cover of _Advanced Potion Making: Revised_ , and hesitated over her next words, lips pulled downward, "and . . ."

"He got the shit kicked out of him, mate," Ron said, eyes wide. "All cut up and bruised and, Merlin, you remember, don't you, Hermione?"

"When was this?" Harry asked. Whenever he saw Lupin, the man always looked relatively healthy. Thin, poor, but healthy nonetheless. "Did you speak to him?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances again.

"Not . . . exactly," Hermione said.

"We weren't supposed to know he was there," Ron added. "We were degnoming the garden, and we wanted some water because it was hot as fuck, but he was in the kitchen so we kinda just stayed outside and listened at the door."

Hermione worried the button at her cuff. "He must have known we were there—he was extremely cryptic—and he wouldn't even tell Mrs. Weasley what'd happened to him. Only that he lost their trail, like he was tracking something."

Epiphany straightened Harry's spine, clearing his head with the sense of two puzzle pieces coming together. "Lupin said something to me in July," Harry said. Ron's usually slack face showed a rare attentiveness, and Hermione perched on the edge of her seat as though in class already. Abruptly it came to mind that Hermione's parents may have placed her in etiquette school in her youth. "I don't think he meant to, because he wouldn't say anything more after that, but he mentioned that Voldemort—Christ, Ron, it's just a name—was looking for something. A powerful magical object."

While excitement rolled off Ron as easily as it would an overactive five-year-old, Hermione seemed rather exasperated.

"They gave us the weapon excuse last year," she explained after Harry's questioning look. "But it wasn't a weapon at all. Just a prophecy Voldemort wanted to hear." There was an odd lilt to her voice, as though she'd sharpened her words on accusation before their release.

Harry shook his head. "I don't think Lupin was being misleading, Hermione. Not this time."

Her large brown gaze both doubted and pitied, and Harry's lips sealed with the petty urge to say nothing more to his friends. Hermione wasn't wrong to think Harry was keeping things from them, and he wished, for the first time, that he'd made friends with less observant people.

Hours passed. The lunch trolley came and went. Blustery wind beat at the windows, but the Hogwarts Express remained undeterred upon its one way trek. Harry and Ron were in the middle of a rather rambunctious game of Exploding Snap (after the third round, Hermione—hair singed and fingers blackened—opted out in favor of reading) when the compartment door crashed open; a rolling sound like rushing water that dragged Harry almost completely to the backdoor at the Dursley's. Harry had accidentally slammed Dudley's fingers in the door once. Uncle Vernon did the same to Harry until the little bones in his hand splintered and snapped. He was six.

The sliding door hit the stop with a loud bang, and Harry came back. He was sixteen. He and Ron dropped their cards, which exploded black smoke into their faces upon touching their discard pile. Orange cinders streaked across the compartment. Hermione shrieked with alarm and beat a small flame into a charred dot on the upholstery with her Potions text. Paper aged with heat floated gently to the floor.

"Merlin, you lot are pathetic," Malfoy sneered as blackness swept out the open window, clearing the compartment with a breath of rain and pine. At the pale sight of Draco Malfoy, the anxiety Harry's past normally inspired fluttered into nothing, and the immediate discontent Harry felt pulled callously at his features.

"Pathetic?" The word touched a soft nerve in Ron. "What gives you the right—?"

Hermione snapped the window shut, and the gale whispered its power against the glass.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Hermione said primly, bringing her book delicately up to her nose. Though her face remained as blank as it usually did when studying, her normally expressive eyes had narrowed to slivers, taking in nothing of the world on her pages. "Bullying the first years, perhaps?"

Malfoy leaned casually against the doorframe, pointed nose tilted upward, adapting a pained expression better suited to misunderstood artists. "Too much filth in one room," he simpered, arms crossed over a white silk button-up. "I didn't want to chance it—do you think Mudblood is catching?"

Ron jumped to his feet, wand brandished into the grinning face of Draco Malfoy. A snarl slashed through Ron's freckles. And in the background Hermione pleaded with their red-headed friend, arguing rationale into his ears. She may as well have been reasoning with a brick wall.

"How'd your father like Azkaban, Malfoy?" Harry asked before Ron had a chance to do anything foolish.

There was an instant change in Malfoy: the smile fractured into something strange—gone was the smug patrician who knew his worth, twisting with an animalistic rage only summoned by a festering wound. It was almost disconcerting to watch; Malfoy was usually so composed.

Despite this, anger zipped from Harry's veins to his heart, overriding his nerves, his usual compassion, bleeding darkness into his words: "I don't know exactly what goes on there, but in Muggle prisons it's more than just foreplay."

" _Harry!"_ Hermione was scandalized.

"That's because Muggles are disgusting vermin." Slate eyes hardened. "Speaking of disgusting vermin, I saw you and Lupin today."

Harry felt anger slide his features sideways, the right corner of his mouth yanking downward.

"No wonder this country's going to the dogs," Malfoy continued. "Their savior keeps company with them. First the precious dogfather, and now the werewolf. I don't get it. Is it a sniff your ass you sniff theirs kind of thing? Or is it more—" Pale brows popped upward briefly, "Invasive?"

Something within Harry snapped. "You son of a bitch—" he started lowly, and it was only a stinging jinx to the knee that kept him from swinging. He toppled into his seat, scattering Pumpkin Pasty wrappers and unopened boxes of chocolate frogs to the carpet.

"Leave, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped, wand in hand, as Ron bellowed, "Get the fuck out!"

Malfoy sniffed mockingly and backed into the empty corridor, stumbling only slightly as the train rumbled over a groove in the tracks. He smirked at them over his shoulder, then strolled leisurely away. Harry got up, rubbed his knee to the tune of Hermione's quiet apology, and peered into the hallway. Malfoy's slender figure ambled toward the middle of the train, silver and green prefect's pin echoing in subsequent compartment windows with the same self-assurance as his slicked platinum hair. He no longer smiled.

Harry closed the door.

"What an asshole," Ron said, slumping into his seat. For once, Hermione did not berate Ron for his language. "You'd think he'd get tired of bothering us every year."

"I think he likes the tradition of being kicked out of our compartment," Harry said. "He must get off on rejection."

Hermione looked up at the ceiling momentarily. "Why am I friends with boys?" she asked no one in particular.

"I'm serious," Ron said. "He's a slimy little fuck. Take today's prefect meeting: he threw around some shit—probably 'cause the new Head Girl's a Muggleborn, you know? The Head Boy looked about to punch him. Even Greengrass, Malfoy's partner, told him to shut up, and she's a stone cold bitch."

Hermione sharpened her glare on Ron's face. "I'd hardly call her that," she said. "She's just quiet. And she knows her stuff. But apparently, whenever she tells someone they're wrong it's an epidemic of male castration."

"She could be nicer about it!" Ron threw up an argumentative palm. "Right, Harry?"

Harry swallowed uncomfortably when Hermione and Ron simultaneously turned to him. It was a rare occasion he was called in to settle their bickers. Instead, he shrugged. "She's never said anything to me," he alleged.

"Traitor," Ron mumbled, but Harry knew it was in jest.

"Men are such babies." Hermione rolled her eyes. She checked her watch, then the sky, which had been smeared with dusk. "You both should probably change," she said. "We'll be arriving soon."

Changing into their school robes was more of a challenge this year than in the years before. Ron, who had surpassed six feet, seemed to encompass the entirety of the compartment as he shuffled about, knocking into the door and ceiling as he contorted his limbs to the amorphous shape of the Hogwarts uniform. He apologized whenever he bumped into Harry, one of which nearly toppled Harry into to opposite window. Hermione giggled at them all the while.

When the train hissed to a stop, Harry led the way out of the compartment and onto the small brick walkway that was the Hogsmeade Station. The moon had turned her face away this night, and magical fire licked glass lantern cages, lining contours of each student as they passed in dim triangles of shadow and flame. _Lumos_ beams crossed cobblestone like searchlights. Distant porchlight bled into the darkness, becoming dim stars in the night leading travelers to warmth, food, and drink. And above the level of students' chatter Hagrid called gruffly for the first years. Harry perked at this; he became a periscope over the bobbing heads of younger years, neck turning in all directions for just a glimpse of his first and largest friend. And perhaps an 'Alrigh', Harry?' as well.

Nevertheless, like the crooked grey clouds across the dusk drifted Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice:

"Harry! Harry, over here!"

Luna's bright hair shone through the gloom as she waved, a halo about her pale features from beneath the bluish lantern of the line of carriages. Neville stood almost behind her with a shy smile, though his eyes would shift toward the thestrals locked in with iron chains, and he would clutch his colorful plant closer to his chest. Relief breathed through Harry, and he urged Ron and Hermione into a light jog to catch the next carriage. They clambered up, settling into old seats of mothballs and fade.

"You're looking quite thin, Harry," Luna remarked candidly as the carriage rocked forward to hum over the dirt path. She tilted her head, and the wispy blonde cloud of her hair shifted. "Be careful not to let bariaeths into your dreams. They can be greedy in that way."

Harry carefully avoided exchanging a look with any of his friends: Ron had snorted, Hermione was rather stony-faced, and Neville was now coughing into the crook of his arm. Unsure of himself as he indulged in his Ravenclaw friend's peculiar brand of sanity, Harry asked, "What's a bariaeth?"

"You can't see them," Luna informed him brightly. She didn't seem to have heard Hermione's 'Of course you can't,' as she continued, "But they enter your body through your nose in your sleep and feast on everything, leaving just bad dreams behind. Judging on your size, I suspect there's more than one. I can check, if you like."

Luna pulling out her wand and lit it with a rushed _lumos_ , leaning across the carriage to where Harry sat now. He leaned carefully out of reach, the back of his head knocking against the sliver of window at the back.

"Thanks, Luna," he said, very conscious of Neville, whose full cheeks were flushed in a triangle of red from his ear to his chin. "But I think I'll chance another night."

She returned to her seat, but earnestness blew her eyes wide. "Just don't give up, okay? That's how they gain control."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said at last, but he was grinning now.

"How have you been, Neville?" Hermione interjected almost immediately.

"I got a new wand," Neville offered, and his previously still plant snapped grumpily at his fingers when he nearly upturned it in the haste to retrieve it. Resting on his palm was handsome stick of smooth auburn, and it gleamed under the blue glow of the carriage's shaky lanterns.

"Nice," Ron said, nodding with approval as Neville passed it around.

"Cherry and unicorn hair. Gran's strict about the underage laws, but Ollivander let me levitate that old chair that's always in there. Works better than my dad's old wand."

"She wasn't angry, then?" Harry asked.

The blonde boy grinned, dark eyes of chocolate and caramel and other happy things. "Said he'd be proud of me—my dad, I mean," he said, stowing away his wand. He sounded as though he could never be awarded a higher compliment. "Said I'd earned a new one. It must have been one of the last Ollivander ever sold; he disappeared the next day."

The conversation navigated more distant waters of the others' experiences with the odd wandmaker, and Harry drifted into a cavern, distracted again by what he hadn't told his friends. The imposter. The prophecy. How different would it have been, had Voldemort chosen Neville Longbottom as his opponent, his equal? Would it be Neville across from him, bolt of lightning striking just under _his_ fringe, while a scarless Harry shared this carriage, warmed and loved by a parental kiss and ruffle of the hair before he'd left for school? Would he have Neville's path, still orphaned despite living parents, but raised by old school friends and a traitor? Would he have still been raised by the Dursleys? Or would Neville's seat be empty, the result of an infant dead before his time, exposed in a way Harry had not been because of old magic's touch?

Did Neville have a right to the prophecy?

Harry opened his eyes, and they were at the castle. Hermione had reached forward as though to shake him awake, and appeared startled upon realizing he hadn't been asleep. He continued to ignore her invasive stare as he dropped from the carriage, absorbing the compacted earth's shock with a slight bend of the knees. His cloak swept forth over his worn trainers. Stone drenched with mist and night towered above them, cobbled together with the strength of a millennia's magic. Conjured flame softened the arch above the solid entrance doors. And beneath it hunched a slight figure, age and shadows tugging loose skin from a near hairless skull, a cat upon its bony shoulder like a parrot, tail sweeping behind the overlarge coat. Yellow eyes flashed from its mangy face.

"Merlin, that's scary," Ron commented under his breath. A closer distance to the school revealed the figure as none other than Mr. Filch, the school's caretaker, and his cat, Mrs. Norris. Intense dislike crept along Filch's chronic pout as he recognized Harry and his friends, and he patted his cat with consoling hands as he muttered, "Don't worry, my pet. One of these days . . ."

With such an ominous greeting, they followed the crowd of students through the front doors.

The Great Hall during the opening feast was always a welcome sight to behold: four polished tables stretching towards an elevated and much smaller one, at which the professors sat chatting amicably with the exception of a select few. Candles flickered above their heads, flames licking the dark clouds imitated from outside's gloom. After a cheerful goodbye from Luna, Harry and the others settled in the middle of the Gryffindor table amongst their peers, who all greeted Harry with an optimism that had been absent the year before. Something sullen bit at his mood, and he did his best to ignore it. Katie Bell waved at him from the far end of the table, and Colin Creevey's excitement had eclipsed that of his younger years, evident in his enthusiastic handshake before sitting with the rest of the fifth year Gryffindors. Dean Thomas and Ginny's faces were very close.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron. Irritation burned Ron's ears red, and his knuckles whitened around a fork.

"Slimy, licentious, gnathonic, back-stabbing git." Ron was practically spitting.

Harry had difficulty suppressing his laughter. Hermione didn't even bother.

"My, Ronald, I didn't know you knew such big words," Hermione giggled. "You should be angry more often."

Harry checked under the table. "Alright, where are you hiding the dictionary?"

"It's not funny!" Ron protested, turning his head away as though his sister had done something more heinous than a chaste kiss. "If he so much as looks at her wrong, I'm going to tear him apart with my bare hands."

Neville swallowed uncomfortably. He had taken Ginny to the Yule ball during their fourth year.

Harry took pity on him. "How pissed do you think Snape is this year?"

Dread whitened Ron's skin beneath his freckles. "Merlin, please tell me he didn't get the job."

"No." Harry shook his head. "Lupin told me Dumbledore hired a foreigner to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts." He scanned the Head Table for a new face. Professor Dumbledore sat at the center, seemingly lost in thought as he stared up into the charmed ceiling of the Great Hall, chin resting upon the triangle of his fingers. It surprised Harry that he felt not anger, but dejection at the sight of the headmaster, and with such hurt threatening to clutch at his lungs, Harry looked away. The seat to the headmaster's right was empty, but on its other side was a man whom Harry had never seen before, and yet struck a slight chord of familiarity within him. However, the more Harry stared at this man, the less familiar he became until it washed away with the details: deep midnight blue robes embracing a somewhat diminutive frame, made all the more delicate by immaculate skin of ivory. Hair the shade of merlot wine poured over his shoulder in a plait just passed his collarbone.

"A bit young, isn't he?" Ron said. "Looks like a nancy."

"As long as he teaches a good curriculum, I couldn't care less for his looks," Hermione stated primly, though pink brushed her cheeks.

"Snape looks greasy as usual," Ron commented, eyes turning towards the empty golden gleam of his plate. "Slytherin trash."

Harry allowed his eyes to stray from the stranger, and almost jumped, startled: Snape's dark eyes pinned him to his seat, hatred lingering within each line on the man's face. Petty and cruel, the potions professor would have always been unlikable, but ever since Harry'd set foot in Hogwarts he seemed to have a special place for him: at the top of his shit list. The feeling was mutual, and seemed to grow with every passing year. Harry scowled, rubbing the scruff of his neck. A smirk pulled Snape's lip upward, and he looked away, eyes curtained by his shoulder-length hair.

"Harry? I asked you something."

Snape didn't look his way again. His lips moved in response to something Professor Sprout said.

"Sorry," he mumbled, turning back to his friends. "What was it?"

"We wondered if Lupin said anything else about him," Neville said quietly.

"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat. "Er—His name's Dupont—I can't remember his first name."

"He's French." Hermione sounded both delighted and surprised.

Ron shot her an ugly look. "I dunno why you're so happy about it."

"France is such a lovely place, and so fascinating—I get to go every year."

"Well, bully for you," Ron said sourly. "But a Frenchman on British soil? That can't be good news."

Harry regarded the red-haired stranger once more. Ron's prejudice may have been inherited through history, and, perhaps, cultivated by France's superior Quidditch team, but Harry had other reasons for casting suspicion on Dupont. He'd had few good experiences with past Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. And Lupin's caution flavored his thoughts.

Just as Ron had started to protest in hunger Professor McGonagall led the first years through the front door, this class much larger than those previous. The Sorting Hat lulled the Great Hall into silence with his song, punctuated by applause at its end, and watched as it sorted small strangers into each of the four houses. He recognized a few surnames from old and current classmates. Keeping his attention on the Sorting, however, proved a difficult task as the hollowness within him groaned. More than anything else, Harry wished for soup, hot and steaming, with just enough spice to satisfy his taste buds. The thought was enough to drive him mad, and he knew better than to dream of food when he was cold and hungry. Staring at the empty plate in front of him did no good, either; he tried not to be reminded of his early childhood, but the symbolism was strong with this one.

At last, the Sorting ended, and Dumbledore stood. White beard tucked into his crescent moon belt, he gracefully held out his arms and said, "Enjoy the feast."

Food faded into existence on golden platters, piled high with sustenance and delectable smells that embraced his nose until he could no longer bear it. Roasted steak, charcoal skin sliced to reveal a tender middle. Steamed vegetables, sorted by bright colors and sprinkled with tasteful herbs. Crisp salad, dewed with a thin brown dressing. A cold chicken drizzled with a speckled oil. Garlic potatoes. Hot soup. Baked apples. Harry scooped up a serving of everything in reach, more focused on stuffing himself stupid than the conversations around him. And yet, as he filled himself, the more he felt something was missing.

Hermione must have detected his disquiet, as she placed her fork on her plate and lowered her voice: "Is something wrong?"

Harry swallowed his spoonful of hot liquid, but he couldn't taste it. ". . . I'm not sure," he admitted. The Great Hall bustled with activity, most of it endorsed by children smaller than he. He could tell the Feast was about to conclude, as the chatter no longer echoed back to them from the stone walls, but for what he could see, there was nothing amiss, nothing to suggest—

"The ghosts," he said at last. "They're not here."

Brown eyes widened, a mirror to the shock that whittled through his spine. Hermione twisted in her seat, mouth twisted downwards in disbelief, but she returned to face Harry when she reached the same conclusion.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Harry pressed.

"They probably had something else to do. I wouldn't worry about it," she said at last, but bewilderment ticked at her eyebrows.

"They've never missed the Welcome Feast."

She bit her lip. "Maybe they had trouble with Peeves?"

"Maybe," Harry said, but he was convinced that something wasn't completely right. Sir Nick usually greeted Harry every year, as though trapped in a ritual. The Bloody Baron wasn't present to do what he did best: terrorize the Slytherin first years.

He was still thinking about it even after Dumbledore dismissed them.

* * *

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 **.**

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 **Updated: October 2016**


	6. Thierry Dupont

Chapter 6

"Excellent," said Ron at the Gryffindor table the next morning, a mouthful of eggs crowding his words. He held his timetable in front of him, grinning gleefully. "One or two classes a day, and most of them after lunch. Three classes in all. This year's going to be bloody fantastic."

"And unfulfilling," Hermione countered, each syllable teetering as though insulted. She had sharpened her glare on the edge of her parchment. From their O.W.L. discussion on the train yesterday, Harry knew Hermione was to take the maximum of seven N.E.W.T. classes. Harry himself had five. "How are you to become a well-rounded human being without a broad education? Besides," she added, brown eyes mere slits as Ron mocked her with a gabbing hand puppet. Lavender Brown giggled from a few seats down, and surprised pleasure dusted his grin. "You'll need all those breaks for studying."

"With my class schedule?" Ron waved the parchment in the air and settled it beside his plate. He then proceeded to shovel fluffy eggs and toast into the wide, seemingly endless burrow of his mouth. Pastel yellow chunks slipped from the notice of his bulging cheeks.

Hermione's mouth pulled in disgust. "I guess there are other ways to become well-rounded," she allowed as a browned U of crust skittered toward her half-empty goblet. With careful, measured touches of her knife she inched it towards Ron's plate.

Ron snapped up the offering and rolled his eyes toward the enchanted ceiling, which depicted clear skies untainted by clouds or rain. "'Oo worry too much, 'Er-my-knee." He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Sixth year is going to be a breeze."

"So you say." Hermione primly pulled a red Muggle folder from her bag and slipped her schedule neatly inside. "But this is when we should be preparing ourselves for our N.E.W.T. exams."

Ron dropped his fork. "That's ages away!"

"You should listen to Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall interjected as Hermione opened her mouth for another rebuttal. Straight lines and sharp angles, the Transfiguration professor cut an imposing figure as she stood behind Ron, stern face all the more impressive as morning's light pressed shadows into her figure. Ron had jumped badly with a muddled 'bloody hell' at her sudden appearance. "Your N.E.W.T. years are no laughing matter, nor are they, are you so delicately put it, a breeze. Here you are, Mr. Potter." She handed Harry a fresh timetable, upon which was a note in a familiar, looping hand:

 _The Headmaster cordially invites you to trade Chocolate Frog cards this Wednesday evening at eight._

"I expect everything's in order?" Though she said this with the utmost normality, Harry suspected she was not talking about his schedule. He glanced at his classes, and again at the note.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you, Professor."

She nodded, her crooked witch's hat starched into stillness, but frowned as she peered over her glasses to Ron's schedule, which as now splotched with butter grease and the occasional dried patch of pumpkin juice. "You're one class short for my liking, Mr. Weasley," she said.

"It's to _my_ liking," Ron muttered, viciously slathering grape jam on a golden slice of toast.

"It is to _my_ _standard_ that all Gryffindors are enrolled in at least four courses," Professor McGonagall said without sympathy. She continued to hand timetables out to the Gryffindors around her as she spoke. "It doesn't necessarily have to be a N.E.W.T. course. I know Professor Binns offers a few historical electives, and you can join an O.W.L. elective you haven't previously studied, such as Ancient Runes or Muggle Studies. There's also the option of retaking an O.W.L. course—"

"I'll stay with my year, thanks." Redness crept dangerously slow up the curve of Ron's ears.

Professor McGonagall was unyielding. "How about Care of Magical Creatures?" she ventured. "You scored reasonably well enough to proceed to N.E.W.T. level, and I daresay Professor Hagrid would be delighted to have you."

At the mention of their biggest friend, guilt slithered down to weigh in Harry's stomach. Harry found he could not look away from his schedule, which did not feature a single one of Hagrid's classes. Hermione began shifting scrambled eggs from one side of her plate to the other, her face concealed by the curtain of her hair, and Harry knew she felt the same.

Ron rubbed at his neck, ears fading from their agitated state. "Yeah, all right," he said, expression long.

"Splendid." Professor McGonagall tapped his timetable, and Care of Magical Creatures wrote itself in before Double Charms on Tuesday and after Transfiguration on Friday. "I believe Professor Hagrid is still using the same book for his N.E.W.T. students, so there's no need to indulge in that rubbish Flourish and Blotts calls an Owl Service. And Mr. Potter?"

An unpleasant crick jolted down Harry's spin as he craned his neck upward. "Yes, Ma'am?" he inquired. Without his rootless attention, oats slipped from his spoon.

"I'd like this year's line-up, whenever you are ready," she said. Green eyes gleamed excitedly behind the stern lines of her face. "I've grown accustomed to having the Cup in my office."

"'This year's line-up,'" Ron quoted slowly as Professor McGonagall stalked to the lower end of the Gryffindor table, voice raised against the rough tide of the third years. Ron's head then swiveled to face Harry, who had been squishing the oats of his cereal into a nebulous blob, mouth agape as though Harry had struck him. "Don't tell me you're Quidditch Captain."

"Uh, yeah." Harry peered at his uniform, vaguely surprised he'd forgotten to fix the shining pin to his lapel this morning. "I guess I am. Surprise."

Ron punched his arm. "What a thing to keep from your friends!" he crowed, and guilt thrilled momentarily to Harry's stomach, originating from the contact point of Ron's knuckles; his captaincy wasn't the only thing Harry was keeping from them, however innocent and accidental it had been. "You're my captain now—supposing you'll let me back on the team, heh heh . . ."

Hermione's eyes crinkled happily. "You have the same status as the prefects, now! You can use the bathrooms and the lounges—"

"Not that it's stopped you before," Ron added. A gangly wrist peeked out from the cuff of his black robes as he reached across the table to swipe Harry's schedule. He nodded at its contents, as though confirming what he'd already expected. "Let's see . . . got your Charms and Transfiguration, Herbology, Potions—ouch, good luck there, mate, and—oh, bullocks. Defense with the Slytherins this morning. It's like they _want_ us to kill each other."

"You have your own schedule, you know," Harry said amusedly, breaking his toast to pieces. Butter slicked his fingertips with grease, and he popped a morsel into his mouth.

"What's this tosh on the bottom here?" Ron asked as though he hadn't heard Harry. "Dumbledore's past senile—now he wants to trade chocolate frog cards with students? Completely barking."

Harry snatched his schedule from Ron's long fingers. "That's the password, you moron," he said, and Ron's sudden epiphany—round eyes, open mouth, and expression slackened—was always worth seeing. As Ron uttered a quiet, 'Oh, yeah,' Harry shoved his schedule unceremoniously into his pocket. Dry and heavy, the parchment crinkled loudly under his robes, stretching the seams of fabric as though desiring to return to the light. "Dumbledore wants to meet with me on Wednesday."

"You, too?" Neville exclaimed from further down the table. As the fifth year Gryffindors gathered their bags he scooted closer to Hermione, worrying his timetable with thick fingers. He lowered his voice. "You don't think it's because of last year?"

Harry and Ron stared at him blankly, but Hermione was quick to pick up the beat. "Of course not," she said. "If that were the case, he'd want to see the rest of us. But Ron and I haven't notes, and I doubt Ginny and Luna do, either. He probably wants to talk to you about something completely unrelated."

Oh. Neville thought he was in trouble because of what they had done at the Department of Mysteries. That he would be punished for fighting Death Eaters, protecting himself and his friends. Although Neville's thinking was irrational—they would have been punished for that disaster last year, if at all—it made sense; Harry doubted Neville had ever a meeting with the Headmaster in his life. The idea that most students never even saw the Headmaster's office was a novel one to Harry, who'd made a visit at least once a year since his second.

Then again, most students didn't get into as much trouble as Harry did.

Harry then wondered if their combined meeting had something to do with the prophecy. Neville had once been a possible subject, after all. Perhaps, after having a summer's reflection, Dumbledore decided Neville had the right to know as well?

Harry shook himself, allowing the sunlight to lean its heavy warmth on his back like an exuberant friend. Forced reassurance attempted to draw a smile on his face. "I'm sure it's nothing," he said, standing to pat Neville's slumped shoulder.

Wouldn't Neville be happier not knowing?

* * *

The four stepped out of the Great Hall together, traversing the castle's vast halls as speculation wove its curious arms over their shoulders, connecting them through the unknown that was their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Who was this man? Would he be informative, as Lupin and 'Moody' had been? Or would he be completely useless, another idiot like Lockhart ( _He wasn't an idiot, Harry James; merely misguided_ ) dooming them all to another year of boredom and slapdash plans to teach themselves?

Ivory staircases twisted beneath them. Portraits wished them a happy morning, watercolor hands of merry youths waving as they passed. Sunlight washed creaking suits of armor and faded squares of stone, breathing warmth into entities that would otherwise remain cold. Harry half-expected Peeves to pop up from beyond a corner and pelt them with breakfast scones, but then he remembered his discovery at the Welcome Feast last night. A chill he couldn't explain dampened his hands. It was perfectly possible, as Hermione had suggested, that the ghosts had simply decided not to come to the Welcome Feast this year. Perhaps they had trouble with Peeves, and it took the entire night and community of specters to contain him. Perhaps there was another Deathday Party, celebrations prolonged by a grandiloquent showcase of the Headless Hunt. Or, perhaps he was overreacting, overthinking something completely trivial.

The castle seemed unnaturally quiet. Harry scrubbed his palms down the length of his thigh, and the smooth velvet of his robes absorbed some of his unease. He would have to remember to ask Dumbledore about it when they met.

At last, they arrived, and the ghosts were forgotten in lieu of his curiosity. For the most part, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom remained unchanged: stone humming beneath their feet, bathed in morning from arched windows unbothered by curtains; ceiling vaulted high into wooden rafters, opening the space as though an indoor clearing; and above their heads remained the dragon's bones, hanging from chains bolted to extended wings. The desks, however, formed a wide circle, molding the room into something a little more radical and dynamic than the usual forward-facing rows. Each desk corner touched another, facing an empty space of stone floor, upon which runes had been branded.

If Hermione hadn't a hold of Harry's sleeve he would have chosen the desk nearest the door. As it was, he now sat with his back to the window. To his left, Hermione carefully lined up her class materials: tidied parchment, unstoppered inkwell and quill parallel to its side, their textbooks— _The Dark Arts: Unmasked_ and, strangely enough, _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ —hugged the corner. To his right, Ron didn't bother. Harry set his bag on the floor, where it slouched against the table leg. Like the Gryffindors, each sixth year Slytherin appeared to have passed their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., including, to Harry's greatest astonishment, Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom lumbered in minutes before Draco Malfoy. For the past five years, Harry had been under the impression they didn't know their way around the castle without him.

While the Gryffindors gradually occupied the window desks, backs to the sapphire morning shining upon dry grounds of emerald, the Slytherins rounded the other side. Neville squeaked uncomfortably from Hermione's left; the circular design of the desks didn't allow for their usual segregation, and Goyle had dropped heavily into the seat next to him. He gave no acknowledgement of the forgetful boy's existence other than a scrunch of his fat nose.

At the front of the classroom the chalkboard and teacher's desk lingered, almost shunned by the new position of the desks. Thierry Dupont stood at his desk with his back to the class, examining a large poster of fire that took another shape whenever Harry glanced away. Similar diagrams depicting various subjects replaced last year's Ministry propaganda: magical creatures, dark wizards in history, and, shockingly enough, the Dark Mark. When the noise level peaked, Dupont turned to face them.

"I am Professor Dupont." Much like his expression, his words were chipped from marble: each fragment as smooth and an unyielding as the base from which it came. If he hadn't introduced himself, stressing vowels of his surname towards the floor and ignoring the consonant at the end, Harry wouldn't have known the man was French at all; his accent was clean, clearly upper-class, but very English. Conversation wobbled out of existence. "As name games will be tedious for the both of us, we will abstain from such common practice. I'm certain you all know each other. I will learn your names in due time."

Navy robes billowed as Professor Dupont clasped his hands behind his back, pale eyes narrowed to inspect the class. They lingered on Harry, flicking with calculation from his face to his fringe—which did nothing to conceal his scar these days—and away. Harry strongly repressed the urge to scowl.

Professor Dupont became suddenly animated, a wiry arm swiftly pointing over Neville and Goyle's heads toward the back of the class. "Notice the empty seat closest the door," he commanded, and the students obeyed, attention landing upon the desk between Daphne Greengrass and Parvarti Patil, which sat no one. "Yes, between the two young ladies. That seat is for me. As this is your first class, I will allow that to slide, but from now on—ah, you've read my mind. Bravo."

The Gryffindors had all shifted one chair down—Hermione fussing as she gathered all her carefully prepared materials—and like a hissing crack in the earth the desk at the very top opened between Neville and Goyle. Neville had immediately lost his wide-eyed look of badly concealed panic.

"Welcome to the N.E.W.T. level class of Defense Against the Dark Arts, ladies and gentlemen," Dupont continued, having returned to his realistic impersonation of a statue. "The Headmaster informed me of your situation last year. Am I correct in the assumption that you were unable to cover offensive and defensive spells, as Hogwarts' curriculum dictates?"

Silence scoured the shadows from each corner of the room.

Dupont lowered his head, strands of fine merlot hair streaking a wry smile. "I see," he said. "Many of you took pains to study O.W.L. material on your own, in spite of explicit instructions otherwise. Well done. This means I will not have to waste time."

Nearly the entirety of Gryffindor exchanged glances—a medley of excitement, confusion, and wariness—and many of them connected with Harry.

"Class sessions will continue as followed. Mondays are strictly theory. Each Wednesday you will join your year mates in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw in the Great Hall for a practical lesson, which will take up the entirety of your morning. On Fridays we meet back in this classroom for a review of both parts." Dupont stepped away from the chalkboard to stand directly behind the empty desk. Next to Neville and Goyle, both boys of height and girth, the professor seemed quite small. Pale fingers curled around the chair's back, and he peered over the end of his aristocratic nose. "This year we will cover matters of the darkest art, and perhaps the most heinous crimes against humanity, including sacrifice, blood magic, and Inferi. We will continue to investigate higher offensive and defensive spells, but you will also learn to do them nonverbally. I expect you to practice spells assigned each Monday so they can be reviewed swiftly in the next class, and we can move onto bigger and better things. If all goes well, later in the year we can experiment with a bit of cursebreaking—seventh year N.E.W.T. material. Questions?"

Slytherins and Gryffindors alike turned to Hermione, notorious for prolonging class to satiate her thirst for knowledge. None seemed conscious of the action, Harry thought amusedly. Hermione noticed as well, gave a quizzical look, but remained silent.

"Excellent." Dupont clapped his hands together, a dry, short sound. "Today is Monday, so you won't be needing your wands. Take notes if you like, but you won't be tested on today's lecture."

"Remind you of someone?" Ron muttered to Harry. It had been a hallmark of Umbridge's teaching style to put away their wands. A pout lingered on Neville's downcast features—he seemed expressly put out he would not be using his new stick of cherry and unicorn hair.

With unexpected agility Professor Dupont fixed his left arm to the empty table and vaulted over the desk, planting his feet solidly to the floor. Polished shoes walked along the charred floor without smearing runes, and his robes mimicked an early night sky as he stepped into a slanted arch of light, stars shimmering delicately into morning. Without further ado the professor launched into a basic retelling of the First Wizarding War, beginning with the unknown shadow figure of the early nineteen-seventies that had phased into existence later on through the collective fear of British witches and wizards. He painted tale of power and inaction, of mistakes and death. Much of what Dupont illustrated Harry had already known, but the professor's insightful comments forced Harry to look at the situation from both sides. As a prophecy had forced Harry's hand in the long game, he couldn't afford to understand the other side when he was meant to end its founder.

Still, learning recent History of Magic was strange in a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Dupont was a fair teacher, Harry admitted, but this review seemed entirely irrelevant. Given the divot burrowing between her eyebrows, Hermione felt the same.

She raised her hand.

Professor Dupont paused, thin eyebrows peaked in polite acknowledgement. "Yes, Miss . . . ?"

"Granger," Hermione said primly, gently lowering her quill. The parchment previously trapped between he elbows glistened with cramped writing. "I apologize for the interruption, but what does this have to do with learning to defend ourselves against what's out there?"

Many students straightened from sleepy mounds, faces doughy with drowsiness molding into something resembling interest.

"I'm glad you asked, Miss Granger." Dupont gave a small, closed mouthed smile, pale eyes bright for the first time. He had been waiting for this question. "Why do we recap You-Know-Who's quick rise to power, when we should be learning to stun and expel? Why should we understand motive and means of dark wizards, when we should be protesting their harsh demands? Why indeed study the criminals—yes, criminals," he repeated when Zabini's dark brow broke its steady line, "that continue to terrorize your homeland _to this day?"_

Dupont paused, and a sudden hush draped over the classroom, isolating it from the rest of the castle.

"No takers? That's okay; you're only sixteen," Dupont said. "We study this history—your country's _recent_ history—because it is still relevant today. Every single one of you is a product of this First War, and you're the generation that will, hopefully, end the second before it truly starts. We study these dark wizards because these are the people you will defend yourselves against every time you leave the safety of this castle."

A short burst of derision broke the isolated seal, and footsteps could be heard passing the door.

Dupont blinked his piercing eyes, turning towards the rude noise. "You disagree, Mister . . . ?"

"Malfoy." The blonde scion leaned back in his chair, thin arms crossed over a green and silver tie. "Draco Malfoy. _L'habit ne fait pas le moine, menteur sale_."

Harry could have never guessed Malfoy knew another language. He exchanged bewildered glances with Ron and Hermione, and noticed none from Slytherin shared their surprise.

" _La barbe d'un garçon ne fait pas un homme, vavasseur morveux._ Are you trying to discredit me, Mr. Malfoy?" Serenity smoothed the cool stone of the professor's voice.

Pink flushed the paleness from Malfoy's neck. "Not at all," he said, quite ingenuously.

"Then if you insist on challenging those around you, please do so in the common tongue, so misunderstandings are at a bare minimum."

Malfoy wasn't fool enough to fall for that trick. "Why should I listen to you? You're a foreigner, and you're illegitimate. A Muggle's son."

Disgust fluffed the cheeks of Pansy Parkinson, and Crabbe and Goyle leaned their bulk to the side of their desks as though Dupont were contagious. Theodore Nott's upper lip spasmed, as though something rotten had passed underneath his long nose.

"Illegitimate." Each syllable was pronounced slowly, softly, as though tasting a new word and finding it lacking. Something Harry couldn't identify pull briefly at Dupont's full mouth. "What a word," he said. "Archaic, meaningful only in aristocratic circles of old, meant to embarrass those interpreted to be lesser, or greater. To discredit findings, to keep wealth in the appropriate hands—long story short, a word meant to control others through shame." Dupont smiled. "How lucky we are, then, to live in the twentieth century."

Harry then realized: Dupont had been _amused_ by Malfoy.

"If you truly desire my disgrace, I recommend a logical systematic breakdown of my theories," Dupont said, almost lightly, but there was something hard about the slender curve of his jaw that told a different story. "Much more embarrassing, I think, than an accusation that has long since lost importance in France. Please tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how my supposed parentage invalidates the odd twenty intellectual articles I've published since my fifth year at Beauxbatons? If I were so filthy, how did I graduate at the top of my class? This is public knowledge, by the way, easily accessible through international archives—just an owl away, if you ever get the urge to further question my credentials through lack of proficient genealogy."

Malfoy didn't respond, but scorn tore his pointed face into ugly factions. For some reason or another, Malfoy was disregarding a professor's authority. Despite Malfoy's jeering toward Harry in the halls of Hogwarts, he'd never been much of a troublemaker during class. A professor's word had always been absolute. If anything, Harry was the troublemaker.

Dupont's mouth cracked into motion, breaking from his marble stature. "Everyone, would you please rise from your chairs—no, don't come and join me, boys," he added graciously as Seamus and Dean made to climb over into the runic circle, "we do not gang up on other students. This is not a revolution, so please remain standing behind your desks."

When Malfoy refused to rise, Dupont sighed. "This is also not a silent protest, Mr. Malfoy. If you would—?"

The blonde rolled his eyes, but pushed to a stand.

"Thank you." Dupont nodded, and turned to face the rest of the class. "Let's tie what we've reviewed earlier into discussion. Based off the Death Eater belief system, who do you think are the primary targets of their rogue regime?"

Malfoy smirked. "Mudbloods."

Gasps fluttered forth through unwitting lips. Angered mutters dropped from Ron's mouth to scatter on the stone floor, washed away by the wide-eyed silence of Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass imitated one another, mouths slightly agape as they stared at their classmate. Approval wafted from Crabbe as did his powerfully horrible cologne. It was one thing to throw around slurs in the halls, but to do so in class, with a professor present . . .

Dupont's continued composure grew eerie. "Mr. Malfoy, join me, if you would."

Surprise flickered in Malfoy's determined hostility, but a smirk smothered it into submission as he slid off the edge of his desk and sauntered into the circle. They stood side-by-side, now. Compared to a sitting Malfoy, the professor had seemed sturdy, if diminutive. Now, however, Harry realized there wasn't much difference between their figures at all.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dupont said. "Mr. Malfoy has just volunteered to play the Dark Lord."

Malfoy blinked, and his arrogance dissolved as a cloud in the wind. "What."

"Muggleborns, did you say, Mr. Malfoy?"

Blonde brows narrowed. "No, I said—"

"As we live in present times, we will discard the use of such archaic terms. We do not live in the Dark Ages, Mr. Malfoy." Professor Dupont spoke loudly, cutting Malfoy's protest to ribbons. "If I ever catch you— _any_ of you—using such barbaric language again, _même in français_ , and especially in the company of those you've been taught to systematically debase since birth, consequences will be very dire indeed." Icy eyes picked at Malfoy's failing poise. "Now," he said, "Take out your wand."

Malfoy scoffed. "You can't tell me what to do."

"All right, Mr. Malfoy, it appears you thrive off the misfortune of others; let's see how well you handle yours. That will be five points from Slytherin for your blatant disrespect—"

"You can't—"

"—refuse me again and I'll make it ten. Again after that, it will be a detention. You seemed to have forgotten, Mr. Malfoy, that _I_ am in charge here. _I_ am your professor. I'm much older, much smarter, and much more experienced than any other in this room, and you'll find that I can, and will, tell you what to do." Dupont's voice of stone became the sword upon which it had been sharpened. "Wand out, Mr. Malfoy. I will not be asking again."

Malfoy stared. He drew it wand, but it remained lax between his fingers.

"All Muggleborns take a seat. You have just been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort."

Only Hermione and Dean sat down, and it was of Harry's opinion that Professor Dupont was too damned calm.

"All right, who's next?" Dupont asked. When none answered, frustration escaped the stone of his larynx and he slashed at the air with an impatient hand. "After Muggleborns, Mr. Malfoy, who does the Dark Lord go after next?"

Malfoy's pale fingers coiled tightly around his wand. "Half-bloods," he said.

"Half-bloods, take a seat. You've just been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort."

Although more students sat as Dupont bade, the majority of the class remained standing. Tracey Davis sat after a breath of hesitation, her face sunken and pale. Harry did as well. People stared.

The professor surveyed the classroom with a wry eye. "This class is a poor sample of the British wizarding population—in hindsight, I should have assigned blood status beforehand, but that's the truth of spontaneity: unexpected results." Dupont gave a brittle smile. "In reality, half-bloods alone engender roughly sixty percent of wizarding Britain, and purebloods, only twenty-five. Now, what does that say about these 'ideals' when our Lord Malfoy-mort has just killed off seventy-five percent of the population?"

Some of the class reared back as though physically slapped. Harry was almost certain Dupont's question wasn't meant to be answered, but Hermione sat at the edge of her seat now, hand straight in the air, face pointed with scholarly intent.

It caught Dupont's attention immediately. "Miss Granger?"

"It seems to me 'Lord Malfoy-mort's plans weren't very well thought out," she said.

Malfoy's snarl crept to his eyes at this, but Dupont's shone brilliantly, alive within the stoic contours of his face. "Stole the words from my mouth, Miss Granger," he said. "Please, elaborate why this is."

"Y-yes, professor." Shock wrenched Hermione's eyelids wide, but after a small stutter she gained confidence: "To kill off so many would create problems in the economy."

Professor Dupont clapped once to punctuate the end of her statement. "Exactly. Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger." He gave her a clinical, yet appraising look, and turned to the rest of the class. "For those of you still confused, listen closely. At the beginning of mankind—and ladies, please do not take offense, for I mean the word as only a rough generalization—it was every man for himself. He clothed himself, he killed and cooked his own game, he fixed up his own shelter. Essentially, man was nothing more than a self-sufficient animal. However, as men grouped together to form this thing we call 'civilization,' man began to lose this self-sufficiency in favor of a more comfortable living. Tasks necessary for survival were delegated, and over time became specialized into important social roles. Sounds fantastic, does it not? Men no longer had to fight tooth and nail in the wilderness, with just enough to get by! Now they were able to rely on each other under the mutual understanding of our instinctive desire to live. It's an incredible invention, civilization, and men thrive on its comfort."

Dupont opened his mouth, then paused, most likely noticing how Goyle had become rather cross-eyed. He inhaled sharply, and said, "Perhaps I'm getting a little carried away, but really, it all makes perfect sense. Because we live such comfortable lives now, we can never return to the self-sufficiency of our ancestors; in civilization, we need other people to survive. Simple as that. And thus, with Lord Malfoy-mort killing off the majority of the population by using two—only _two_ —classifications, there are no longer butchers, or bakers, or cauldron makers. Essentially all that's left are unskilled idealists. I highly doubt a pureblood has ever tilled a farm or milked a cow. Quite a few of you are probably unable to prepare a meal." Humor lightened his colorless eyes. "Oh, dear. How is this 'higher society' supposed to thrive, when it's most likely to literally starve to death?"

"House Elves," Lavendar Brown said simply. She didn't seem to notice Hermione's glare.

"I've never met a House Elf capable to killing and skinning a cow," Dupont said, just as easily. "And if you'd known the use You-Know-Who had for them, you'd find they'd rarely have the time nor the energy to feed and clothe the entire population."

Lavendar's brow furrowed in irritation, and she crossed her arms.

"But, remember, there are still those that threaten Lord Malfoy-mort's perfect society," Dupont continued. "So who's next to die, according to Death Eater mentality?"

Harry couldn't hear his watch over the silence that had swept the classroom into a void.

"Well?" Dupont's one-worded question was directed to Malfoy. "Next, Mr. Malfoy, next!"

"Blood-traitors," Malfoy finally said, and though his previous ire and the lecture remained, vindictive pleasure teased at Malfoy's features, glinting viciously in his slate eyes.

Next to Harry, Ron made to sit, but Dupont had yet to condemn them. He folded his arms, one holding up the other as he rubbed his chin in thought.

"Define 'blood-traitor,'" Dupont said at last. When none rose to the challenge the professor huffed impatiently, dropping his arms to his sides. "Really, now, there's no such thing as a rhetorical command, and yet, you're all determined to make it so. Very well. Your unwillingness to participate only makes it easier for me to pick on you. You there—yes, you. The Gryffindor with the long black hair. Give me your name and a definition of 'blood-traitor,' if you could be so kind."

"I'm Parvati Patil." Parvati swallowed, tan face shades paler. "And a blood-traitor is . . . a pureblood who—who makes friends with everyone. Not just other purebloods." She said this haltingly, as though her thoughts and mouth refused to agree on one course of action, and picked at her long braid with nervous fingers.

Dupont's blank expression could almost be described as exasperated. "Essentially correct," he conceded, much more slowly than his usual dictation, "but a little more . . . optimistic than what I was looking for. This is the Dark Lord, not your average soap on the WWN. Subtract empathy, and you get—"

"A pureblood who doesn't see the problem associating and procreating with non-purebloods."

Pleasant surprise flitted briefly across Dupont's lips. "That was almost perfect, Mister . . ."

"Nott." Dark eyes beaded the Slytherin's gaunt face, giving nothing away.

The professor nodded, opening his posture to the room, stepping through drifting dust motes and into a band of light previously marking the floor. "You've been given two definitions. Although they're the same at the surface, fundamentally they take a different meaning. Notice how Mr. Nott, a pureblood, used the word 'problem' to describe inter-status relationships, how the tone of his voice indicated deeper feelings of disgust. How he went one step further into 'procreation.' This, ladies and gentlemen, is the attitude that attracts the Dark Lord. Can anyone tell me what this attitude is?"

Harry frowned, his mind stretching for an answer that couldn't be found in the hush of the classroom. None of his classmates seemed to have found it, either, casting for a proper word that remained out of reach above their heads.

"Discontent," Dupont said, once it was clear none could answer. "A bitter dissatisfaction with life. With it comes the desire for a scapegoat—for no one will concede to blaming themselves—and people who are perceived to be outsiders take the fall. You-Know-Who uses this to his advantage . . ." here, Dupont paused, and his barely perceivable excitement reeled back into impassive marble, ". . . but that's a discussion for another day. In the end, the result is the same: these so-called 'blood-traitors' are eliminated for the sake of the 'good old days.' And as Lord Malfoy-mort's reign continues, the definition of 'blood-traitor' loosens to fit his will. Let's see . . ." Colorless eyes flitted from one face to another. "Miss Patil. Since you allowed a Muggleborn refuge in the first wave, you've been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort. And you . . ."

"Seamus Finnegan," Seamus said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other as Parvati shakily lowered to her seat.

"Mr. Finnegan, your family has known ties to quite a few mixed families, and have been murdered for your sympathies in prevention of rebellion. Please sit."

Dupont continued in this manner for another minute, choosing students at random to sit for their hypothesized blood-traitor status—for refusing to take a side, for refusing to become a cauldron maker to help the failing economy, for refusing to give up ownership of one's wand. Once he'd finished—Malfoy attempting to pull a mask over his discomfort and failing—only six students remained standing at their desks: Zabini, Greengrass, Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, and Ron. The redhead gave a cursory glance at his company and then down at Harry, bewilderment opening his expression enough for nerves to tick at the corners; as a Weasley, Ron most likely expected to be the first to sit. His family had always proudly displayed their beliefs.

"Welcome, you six, to Lord Malfoy-mort's chosen Utopia," said Professor Dupont. "You'll need to hunt and cook yourselves, and mend your own clothing once it tears, but at least you're finally amongst your own kind. Feels good, doesn't it? You're finally apart of that cleansed world you've desired for centuries."

Ron's hue sickened into a pasty sheen. Greengrass' lips tugged downwards before resting in neutrality.

Dupont tilted his head. "But Malfoy-mort now has a base for his society to grow. And grow it shall. So you," Dupont swiftly swung his arm across his body, pointing at Parkinson before looking her way, "Yes, you with the short dark hair, it's time to do your biological duty as a female. You're now affianced to that young man over there." Movements sharp and clean, Dupont pointed at Crabbe. The Slytherin then smiled, tiny teeth jagged and crowded together, pushing full cheeks up and sideways to greatly resemble a rotting pumpkin as it sagged into itself. The effect was instantly chilling.

Pansy Parkinson reeled in horror. Harry didn't blame her. "I'm not marrying _him!"_

"You don't have enough choice to be picky about this." The professor's tone was ruthless. "Sit down then, blood-traitor who refuses to sustain the pure-blood population. Lord Malfoy-mort just killed you, too."

Parkinson's small eyes dilated in shock, and she slumped to her seat with an unhappy noise, gaze averted from Malfoy.

"You, Mister . . ."

"Goyle." The name was almost grunted.

"Yes. You and the young man next to you misplaced a very rare potion ingredient, and Lord Malfoy-mort was most displeased. Please sit. You there . . ."

"Blaise Zabini."

"Yes, Mr. Zabini. Lord Malfoy-mort killed you because he suspected you were a spy. In fact, he suspects you're all spies, and has killed every single one of you except for that young man there, his most loyal follower."

Ron recoiled, long fingers white as he clenched the back of his chair. "I would _never_ —!" he started, revulsion picking at his lower lip, but Dupont interrupted him with a tilt of his head.

"So you're an _actual_ spy then," the professor said. "Color me impressed; you've survived this massacre by a stroke of luck, but Lord Malfoy-mort always ties loose ends. Please sit, Mister . . ."

"Weasley." Ron swallowed, and did as Dupont bade.

That timeless silence swept over the room once more, but it was now charged with a tension that didn't exist before. Strain pulled faces tight, and most of Slytherin sat rigidly in their seats, as though rooted to their chairs in expectation of something greater, and as the tension pulsed in waves around them, Professor Dupont stood tall and calm as though anchored in the eye of the storm of his own doing. His still face may as well have been carved into the masthead.

He then turned his head to look at Malfoy. "Had enough?"

Something mean dug into the crevasses of Malfoy's face, tearing his mouth into opposing directions and slashing his pupils to slits. Harry half expected Malfoy to mention his father. Or hex the professor.

After a moment, face ever unchanging, Dupont broke his stare and turned to the rest of the class; a dismissal. "Please take a seat, Mr. Malfoy. We've finished with this exercise."

Malfoy's lip curled, but he returned as Dupont suggested, saying nothing.

Dupont clasped his arms at his lower back. "Now, who all agrees with this assessment of You-Know-Who? That he values blood purity above all else?"

Everyone raised their hands, Harry included.

"Even after all that?" Dupont raised a merlot eyebrow, disbelief stringing up the edge of his lip. "Well, I just learned he's got you all properly brainwashed. You're all wrong."

Silence dried the room of its previous emotion, leaving anticipation too peer out from under the desks.

"The Dark Lord doesn't care for anyone but himself and what can make him more powerful," Dupont continued. "You've a rich daddy in the government? Good for you. The Dark Lord likes your daddy for his influence and money. But if Daddy gets fired, or takes a wrong turn, or makes a slip of the tongue, your entire family will be on the cover of the next _Daily Prophet_ , underneath the Dark Mark."

Harry held his breath. He wasn't the only one; the collective action of the students robbed the room of life. Birds twittered obliviously behind him.

Dupont inhaled sharply. "It doesn't matter if you're Muggleborn or half-blood or pureblood; you _will_ die if you don't defend yourself. I don't know how else to get you to take these matters seriously. You _will not_ survive on the arrogant illusion that a fluke at birth will protect you. That is nothing more than an abstract thought, a ridiculous ideal founded upon arrogance alone. There is no evidence whatsoever that supports the claim that having pure blood makes you a better wizard, a more powerful wizard, a more clever wizard. Because when you're standing on the other end of an enemy's wand, you're nothing more than in his way."

Morning's light trimmed his figure in gold. Unmoving he stood in the middle of the runic circle, a navy pillar of ideals, a statue guarding the integrity of Hogwarts. More than anything he resembled a Roman adventurer immortalized in stone, albeit smaller.

The image was ruined when Dupont looked down at his watch. "Ah, we've run out of time," he said, and the exhaled relief of students filled the classroom to its brim. "Your first assignment: read chapters one and two of _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ , and craft a quick summary of its most important points for Friday. I would also like you to meditate on why You-Know-Who's supporters tend to be of a certain stock, if he doesn't care for blood purity. Think about what's been said and done in this class. You may also argue against this, but make sure to give compelling evidence if you choose to do so. Unfortunately, I don't have any spells for you to practice today, but if you feel you're rusty, it may help to look over O.W.L. skills for Wednesday. Thank you for a very enlightening discussion. Dismissed."

Noise rushed into the room as though a dam had been opened. Conversation sprouted as unsightly weeds in spring, watered with the rustle of materials being shunted into bags, the low-toned scritch of manipulated chairs. Harry himself had slung his pack over his shoulder when the professor spoke again:

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, please stay a moment."

Most of the class had gone, the hallway beyond the door loud with the clatter of students finished with their first class. Though the circle of desks remained, their chairs had arranged themselves in varying stages of neatness, either pushed in or angled away from the middle of the room. Ron and Hermione hesitated by the door. Harry shrugged at them and moved to the teacher's desk beside Malfoy, who sneered at the side of his face.

Dupont rested his clean-shaven chin upon closed fists. "Mr. Potter," he said. "I've been told you hosted a Defense Against the Dark Arts group last year. Dumbledore's Army, was it?"

Malfoy snorted, and it was badly stifled.

"Uh." Harry's eyes wandered uncomfortably away. Professor Dupont seemed in the middle of unpacking, black leather trunks open beside the half-empty bookcase filled with texts of curious titles and aged scrolls. No papers or trinkets personalized the table as of yet. "Yeah, but—"

"I was wondering if you were interested in continuing."

Harry's attention snapped immediately back to Dupont, embarrassment forgotten. "What?" he said, quite flabbergasted.

Dupont gave his brittle, closed-mouthed smile, but it was tendered by the brightness in his eyes. "To be honest, I wasn't all that certain myself when the Headmaster suggested reinstating a student-run club—"

"Dumbledore!" Harry couldn't help but exclaim. Malfoy edged a few inches further from Harry, brushing lines from his robes with his hands.

"I guess suggested is too strong a word for what he did," Dupont mused. "He merely mentioned it, but his tone told me it was something I should consider, and consider it I have."

"Have you?" The words fell from Harry's mouth; he was hardly aware of what he was saying. He felt like a parrot, only able to produce fragments of what he'd heard. Surely Malfoy would find a way to mock Harry's brief period of stupidity later.

Dupont folded pale hands upon the bare desk. "Well, again, I wasn't all that comfortable allowing a student to coach such important skills—what if you had taught the wrong technique? What if it hadn't been a club at all, but a common leisure time? But then I did a little research. Your O.W.L. score for Defense is very impressive. Very impressive indeed. You're in the top fifth percentile since they started O.W.L. testing, and the best since someone named Tom Riddle from 1942."

Harry fell hard from this flattery. At Voldemort's true name, annoyance calcified in his jaw, and he was unable to form words.

Dupont's eyes widened fractionally, and it made him appear years younger. "Ah." His voice was very soft. "So you do know secrets. I did wonder . . ."

This professor knew the truth about Voldemort? Was this why they touched upon the majorly taboo subject of blood purity in class? Harry wouldn't be surprised if the man received a few Howlers tomorrow morning.

Harry shook his head. "So you want me to start the D.A. up again?"

"That's entirely up to you, Mr. Potter, but it's an idea I'll readily subscribe to." Dupont's expression recovered from its brief tangent. "Although, I was hoping this could expand to include all Houses and all years. And, perhaps, I could assist you."

Harry blinked. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

Wryness tugged at the fine muscles under Dupont's nose. "I daresay they'll listen to you better than I. You are the Chosen One, after all."

A scowl broke free of its earlier restraints. Dupont smiled at him.

"Think about it, if you would," Dupont said, sitting back in his chair. "I believe it would be a big help in preparing your peers, and yourself." With a nod, the professor dismissed him.

Harry turned toward the door, outside of which his friends waited for him, conversing in heated whispers. He found, at the moment, he hardly cared for the topic. He hadn't known he received the same score on his test as Voldemort, and Harry felt less than proud at this fact. He almost wished Dupont had kept that information to himself. Ignorance _was_ bliss, after all.

And yet, excitement streaked nervously within him; this, at least, proved he had a chance.

As Harry exited the classroom, Dupont's voice followed him out: "Mr. Malfoy, I won't apologize if the exercise at the end of class made you uncomfortable, as that is how it is designed to work. However, it would not have been necessary had you not displayed the most disgusting of this generation's thoughtless habits in a very public setting . . ."

"What'd he say?" Ron asked, leading them further out into the hall. Dupont's calm voice faded into the hum of the castle as Harry and his friends joined the dwindling mass of students roaming the halls with direct purpose.

"He wants me to keep the D.A. going," Harry said.

Ron grinned. "I like this Dupont bloke," he stated, ducking into a less-travelled passageway that led straight to Gryffindor Tower. Cool air swept dust and chill at their ankles as the heavy tapestry unfolded itself after them, concealing the Map's secret in a sheet of velvet and shadows. " _Lumos_ . . . I'm serious. This professor isn't going to take _anyone's_ shit—you saw the way he handled Malfoy." Wandlight painted Ron's face pale blue, and dreams blurred his expression into watercolor. "Oh, I'm going to keep that memory right next to Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret . . ."

"I didn't think that was funny at all." Hermione's voice was small, but her words ricocheted off narrow stone walls, hardly muffled by silky cobwebs draping them like tapestries.

Ron misunderstood: "What, the ferret? But that was the best part of fourth year!"

Harry ignored him. "You've got to admit that Malfoy was out of line."

"He was," Hermione allowed, "but Professor Dupont was _mean_."

" _Mean?"_ Ron repeated. "I don't know about mean— _blunt,_ maybe, and I think it was just what Malfoy needed, the Death Eater spawn. Speaking of, when do you think that little shit learned French?"

"His _name_ is French," Hermione dismissed with a roll of her eyes. "He's probably got family over there—"

"No wonder I've never liked him," Ron muttered.

"—But that's not the point! I think Dupont was very inappropriate today. He deliberately voiced his opinion on a highly controversial matter in a class filled with students whose beliefs were the exact opposite. He basically told them that if they didn't like it, they could leave."

"So?"

"He's a teacher! He can't pick sides!"

"Lupin believes all that stuff," Harry said. _And so do we._ He didn't see the problem.

"Harry," Hermione said, patience softening her words from their increasingly shrill and worked up pace. Harry hadn't seen her this worked up since she first discovered that Hogwarts had House Elves. "Lupin wouldn't have forced a student to play-act Lord Voldemort in class, and theoretically kill his classmates."

"Sounds like something Lockhart would do," Ron mused, drawing aside the last tapestry. Light spilled in from the seventh floor hallway, chasing creeping dust to the corners of crooked cobblestone.

"Or Crouch," Harry said darkly. Emotion long since buried seeped from his unconscious at the mention of the name and tugged unpleasantly at his features. Ron and Hermione looked at one another. The conversation cowered into nonexistence until they reached the Fat Lady.

* * *

Lunch passed without incident, but Harry's appetite had been curiously small. Hermione bullied both Harry and Ron into starting their assignment for Dupont, but as it was due Friday, the boys charmed paper airplanes at one another, snickering into their palms whenever one wandered into another section of the library. By the time break had ended, Hermione had finished her assignment, and both Harry and Ron's parchments remained blank. Ron walked the both of them to the ground floor, whereupon Hermione had taken to quizzing Harry on the Draught of Living Death, something they both had to have memorized before the start of Potions this year. Harry himself had exhausted quickly at this review, but Hermione looked so stressed he hadn't the heart to refuse.

"Well, I'm off to the Quidditch Pitch," Ron said, blue eyes bright upon the end of the lobby. Sunlight projected slanted arches on stone, pointing toward the double entrance doors, which had been cracked open a smidge, allowing a sliver of the day's glory to peek inside. It was a beautiful day, and Harry envied Ron's open schedule. He, too, would rather laze about on a broomstick than spend the last of daylight's hours brewing potions.

Hermione stuck her nose in the air. "You could be finishing your homework."

"Hermione, it's sunny, and warm, and Seamus has a flagon of something the Irish wizards like to call Dragonfire." Ron laughed at the disapproval marring her sun-bronzed face. "Relax. I'll only be _slightly_ buzzed for rounds tonight. _Slightly._ "

As Ron lumbered off, black robes slipping off his shoulders, he waved a freckled hand behind him, a few fingers of the other hand loosening the knot of his tie. They watched him push an entrance door wider, breathe deeply air unhindered by the weight of dust and centuries' magic, and jog down the stairs until he disappeared into the rolling emerald of the school grounds. When he was gone, Hermione shook her head, straightened her shoulders, and took the first step down. It was strange going to Potions without Ron.

Descending into the dungeons had always been a study in reluctance for Harry. While the darkness of the lower castle levels swallowed him bit by bit, dampness settled heavily on his shoulders, and he would carry its gloom until he returned to the ground floor for dry air, open ceilings, and natural light. Underneath each faded circle of torchlight the castle walls were gray and scorched, moss weaseling through mortar. Darkness otherwise bathed their surroundings in obscurity. Harry himself had never explored more of the dungeons than necessary, and was thus uncertain of its depth. The Map, certainly, would show him should he ever have the desire, but for the most part, Harry remained uninterested.

The halls twisted and moaned as though Harry and Hermione walked upon the broken limbs of a captive, and before Harry could give into his doubts and join his dorm mates on the pitch they arrived at the classroom. After a brief spell of hesitation, Harry followed Hermione inside.

Only a handful of students had progressed onto N.E.W.T. level Potions: five Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws, and a single Hufflepuff. Harry and Hermione were the only Gryffindors. Ernie Macmillan waved at them with a cheerful grimace. As Ernie hadn't expressed his usual instinct to talk, no doubt nervous for today's class, Harry led Hermione to the far right corner of the room. Their table, washed with stains of potions past, was shadowed by a tall glass armoire that lined the side wall with murky bubbling concoctions and quite a few critter parts in jars, spruced up with the occasional stray dried herb. In hindsight, it was the most disgusting seat in the class—validated by the strange look Hermione shot him—but it was ideal to keep both the door and the Potions Master—a tall, thin man currently occupying the shadows nearest his office door, arms crossed as he muttered irately to himself—in sight. It was also the table furthest away from Draco Malfoy.

Nevertheless, Malfoy made himself known, slate eyes trailing after Harry the moment he walked through the door. Once Harry dropped his bag to the table, Malfoy raised his voice: "I guess those Remedial Potions really paid off, eh, Potter?"

An ugly noise escaped Nott's throat. The Ravenclaws, previously engaged in a philosophical debate over whether the phoenix came before the fire, halted mid-argument and turned to stare. Ernie raised his eyebrows.

Anger pulsed in Harry's fists, which had closed of their own accord atop his shining text. Hermione's well-placed hand on his forearm stopped him from standing.

"They must have." Harry's return wasn't as calm as he'd hoped, but it was a valiant effort. "Since you're here with me."

Smugness slipped from Malfoy's cheeks, which soured as though he'd been sprayed with stinksap. "You better watch that mouth of yours, Potter," he said darkly.

"I don't think you'll find any soap in here," Harry said, and grunted as he took a jab from Hermione's elbow.

Malfoy's brow furrowed. "Soap? What does soap—"

"Quiet."

Snape strode from his office, and shadows cringed away from torchlight as he settled stiffly at his desk, glowering at the closed door as though it had commented on the size of his nose. With that single, two syllable word the Potions professor had generated silence, which suffocated will of students into instant order. It's possible, having missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position once again, Snape would be nastier than ever. Harry immediately sobered, shoulders tense.

"Congratulations," Snape said, and the word crept up damp stone walls like moss. It wasn't a compliment. "All of you, somehow, have made it to my N.E.W.T. level course. Shall I offer you the same cosseting platitudes as my colleagues, and warn you of the difficulty, the outlandish amount of study to stay ahead? Why should I, when it's still a possibility you'll drop this class within the first two weeks?" Snape released a cold, unsettling smile. "Survival in this class relies on both hard work and talent, and for those who are found . . . wanting," here, Snape's glittering gaze lingered on Harry, who grit his teeth in irritation, "I will not hesitate to kick out."

There was no doubt, as Snape's pale face reflected an intense loathing at Harry, the professor was remembering their last Occlumency lesson. This hatred wasn't one-sided. Rather, it lightly scorched Harry's attempt at control, and he took a quiet breath, letting it douse the kindling that was annoyance with forced calm. Snape had said and implied much worse in the past.

"The potions you will brew this year are dangerous," Snape continued. "Any attempt at sabotage, as has been a popular occasion in years past," (he glanced at Harry again, dark eyes shifting briefly to Hermione, and away) "will not be tolerated. Not only will you lose points and your place in this class, but you will also face suspension from this school. You have been warned."

Snape flicked his wand arm up, and ingredients crawled upon the chalky surface of the blackboard as though written by a dozen invisible hands.

"Due to the Headmaster's disturbingly copious sense for . . . fair play," Snape said sourly, sallow cheeks pinched into gaunt displeasure, "I am to provide you with a list of ingredients whenever I test your diminutive memory. However, I refuse to hold your hand further; students who have come unprepared, please let the door hit you on the way out."

No one moved. Something gurgled within the purple sludge contained in a glass jar on Snape's desk. It looked suspiciously like an eye.

Snape's lip curled. "Pity," he said, and with another flick of his wand the supply cabinet sprang open. Neatly labeled boxes—states ranging from grubby to absolutely disgusting—piled upon the shelves, and the faint scent of dried flowers and decay turned Harry's stomach.

"You have one hour." Snape shifted back into the shadows' reaching grasp, robes and hair blending into slightly charred mortar and stone as his eyes glimmered from beyond a sallow, impassive mask. Slowly, he folded his arms over his chest. "Begin," he whispered, and like startled bats the students jumped up from their perch, racing as one to the cabinet.

When Harry studied the Potion's instructions over the summer, he remembered thinking how ridiculously finicky it was: precise measurements with hardly any margin for error, exact waiting periods between new additions and stirring, and the smallest range for heat he'd ever seen in a potion, including their (or, rather, Hermione's) successful attempt to brew Polyjuice during their second year. More than once, Harry had called Snape a series of unflattering names; this potion was, in all senses of the word, a recipe for disaster.

In the end, he had memorized it to the best of his ability. Feigning ignorance of his most hated professor's glare, Harry carefully sliced his Valerian root into one-quarter inch bits while conjured fire heated the underside of his pewter cauldron. Water simmered just under his perception.

Half an hour into the class most students had finished the first part of the potion, which, according to Harry's memory (and a confirming whisper from his best friend) should be a smooth lilac after stirring in powdered asphodel root. The next step required a fourteen minute wait while the ingredients settled. Harry sat back in his seat, swiping a few droplets from his hairline with the back of his hand, a _tempus_ charm cast above his simmering cauldron. His potion was a few shades darker than Hermione's, and he couldn't fight the recurring worry that his Valerian root may have been cut a smidgen too small. It was still purple, to his relief. Still, he couldn't help but cast a few looks—mingled with nerves and defiance—toward Snape, expecting pointed gibes toward either his potion, his father, or himself.

But it seemed Snape was determined to forget Harry's existence today. The professor hadn't looked Harry's way since they'd started their assignment, instead prowling silently from table to table, hunching over nervous students with an expression that boded dire consequences for those who dared breathe wrong.

"You forgot the second round of moondew, Mr. Macmillan," Snape said icily as he phased from within the folds of silence.

Ernie Macmillan's potion, although the lightest of them all, occasionally belched black smoke. Ernie swallowed, gripping his wooden spoon tightly. "Yes, sir," the Hufflepuff said, reaching for a glass dropper filled with a pearly sheen.

Slender hands, stained and cracked as the classroom walls, plucked the dropper from Ernie's grasp, making to close around the boy's wrist. Ernie's arm swung sideways to avoid the surly professor's touch, nearly upturning his belching potion and knocking a small round pot to the floor. It cracked along the lines of its indigenous design. Powder of the asphodel root, white and thick, spilled from cracks in the broken clay and dusted the stone with the sickly scent of incense. Someone chuckled—a short, merry sound that would always be inappropriate within the presence of Severus Snape—and it was quickly stifled.

Snape's lips thinned precariously. "Keep counting your lucky stars, Macmillan, and be thankful you didn't spill anything more harmful than that."

Eyes wide beneath gingery fringe, Ernie swallowed.

"Five points from Hufflepuff, for your blundering," Snape continued, and Ernie's shoulders slumped. He glanced idly to the floor. "Clean up this mess."

"Yes, sir!"

As Ernie stumbled to the supply cabinet, Harry met Hermione's eyes; had Harry been in Ernie's place, he would have lost Gryffindor fifty points and put into at least a week's detention. Snape, Harry thought as his _tempus_ charm quietly beeped just seconds behind Hermione's, was certainly much worse than Dupont could ever be.

Besides, if Hermione was concerned with teachers taking sides, she was complaining about the wrong teacher.

"Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," Snape crooned. Though quiet, the praise punctured the hush that had fallen upon them as they attempted, with great difficulty, to split twelve Sopophorous beans with silver knives. White beans like horribly shriveled eyes streaked across the classroom, zipping over heads, thumping into table legs, and, occasionally, plunking into the potion of a very unfortunate student. Hermione had managed to harvest its juice somewhat, but hardly any liquid had oozed from its wrinkled insides. Harry hadn't yet managed, and in his last attempt his blade slipped off the bean's tough skin and into the table; the bean proceeded to pounce at Harry's face, knocking his glasses to the tip of his nose.

The laughter from earlier bubbled up once more, and before Harry could determine its source Hermione joined in.

"Shut up, Hermione," Harry muttered, straightening his glasses.

"Sorry," Hermione said, but mirth brushed fondly at her lips.

When his next bean dramatically flung itself off the table, frustration forced Harry's hand, and a closed fist squished a bean into submission. Unexpectedly, cool liquid trickled from underneath his fist, pooling into a small river of watery puss. Harry lifted his hand, astonished. He couldn't believe so much juice had come from such a dried little bean. Hastily he scraped the juice into a measuring cup.

Hermione leaned sideways to peer concernedly at his work station. "Ooh—careful not to drink that, Harry," she warned. "You could lose your memory."

 _Did she think he was stupid?_

"Well, shit," Harry said, staring at the damp tabletop. "There goes dinner plans."

Hermione glared at him, but he was too busy inspecting the flat of his blade to care. The beans worked like spiders, Harry thought morbidly; when they could see danger coming, they scurried around to escape their fate. But they were easily squashed. He pressed a white bean flat with his blade, imagining it to be Aragog, and liquid flowed easily.

"How did you do that?" Hermione exclaimed, as astonished as Harry had first felt.

"You squish it," Harry said, "not cut it. Like this." He bent to display what he'd learned, but Hermione's shrill denial stopped him.

"No, Harry—the instructions clearly indicated you were to split the beans in half."

Harry shrugged, and continued to squash the rest of his beans, naming each one after Aragog's pleasant children. It was a shame, Harry though when he'd finished, that he hadn't enough beans to include them all. Yellowy juice like a thin whisked egg sloshed gently in his cup. When he poured its contents into his cauldron, the sludge brightened to a pale periwinkle. He grinned, oblivious to Snape's glittering stare.

At last, after a tiring series of clockwise stirring, they were to stopper a sample of their finished potion, label it, and place it on Snape's desk along with their summer assignments. Clearing their stations was a simple matter.

"Potter." Harry looked up from the sink, which overflowed with crusted cauldrons. Snape's expression was unreadable. "Bring me your book."

That was an odd request, even from Snape. After a brief exchange of mutual confusion with Hermione, Harry hefted his new potions text from his bag and navigated the maze of desks to the front of the class. Snape snatched the text from Harry's hand, inspecting the cover. He then thumbed quickly through the glossy pages, and with each page Snape's eyes burned with fury, baring his yellowed teeth. Whatever Snape was looking for, he didn't find it.

"Is there something wrong with my book, Professor?" Harry asked stiltedly.

Snape threw the book at Harry's chest with a growl. "Where did you get that?"

" _Mrs. Weasley_ bought it for me at Flourish and Blotts." Again, remaining calm was akin to pulling teeth.

"Accepting charity, Potter? Has your celebrity life grown so tiring you can't be bothered to shop for yourself?"

"No," Harry said hotly, smoothing slightly crumpled pages into form. "Sirius died, and Dumbledore left me on Privet Drive all summer. Now, can I leave, _sir?"_

Snape's dark eyes tunneled into Harry's own, and after a moment, Harry looked away.

A pale hand reached over the desk, palm up. "Leave the book with me, Potter," Snape said at last. "You'll get it back when I'm through with it."

"When you're through with it—there's nothing _wrong_ with it!" Harry protested loudly. Hermione bounced nervously on her toes beside him, her bag over her shoulder, his in hand.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said silkily, "and are you sure? No _Princes_ helping you along the way? You do know that using the work of another is cheating, don't you?"

Harry stared. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"A statement you should tattoo on your forehead, next to that scar," Snape said with immense disdain. "The book. Now, Potter."

Harry seethed, anger's flame licking the walls of his lungs. He felt he could breathe fire. After a long glare at Snape's stained hands—his life-line was hideously short, Harry thought savagely—Harry shoved the text at the professor, and turned on his heel. He allowed Hermione to leave ahead of him so he could slam the door on his way out.

* * *

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 **Updated: October 2016**

 **Thanks to BrilliantLady for suggestions to strengthen Dupont's argument. And for the word 'blunt.' A lifesaver, that one :)**


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